Waiting for Time
by Supervillegirl
Summary: After Sherlock's death in 2011, John decides he can't bear to live in Baker Street anymore, and he leaves a letter to the new tenant. It doesn't make it to the new tenant. It makes it to an old one: Sherlock Holmes. In 2009.
1. Chapter 1

**So, I got this idea while watching "The Lake House," and I just fell in love with it. I tried to stay as true to the timeline as I could. Enjoy!**

* * *

Prologue

 **3 July 2011**

Dr. John Watson placed the last of his clothes in his bag and zipped it up, hefting it from the bare mattress and heading for the door. He turned in the doorway and looked back at the room. He had only lived here for barely one and a half years, but it felt like a decade. For his entire adult life, this was the only place that had ever felt like home. But he didn't know how to keep living here anymore.

John bowed his head and closed the door, turning and heading down the stairs. When he reached the landing, he stepped through the door to the main flat. He looked around at all of his flatmate's possessions: papers, case files, an abandoned pack of cigarettes, his beloved violin, a tartan slipper filled with tobacco, a penknife stuck into the mantle, a microscope and empty beakers on the kitchen table. Taking a look around, he realized just how much Sherlock had filled the place. Even with all of John's things gone, the sitting room and kitchen looked practically the same.

John stepped forward and moved toward the table set between the two windows, reaching for the deerstalker that lay abandoned there. He picked it up and held it up in front of him, smiling a little before frowning in pain. He turned towards the rest of the room and all of his friend's things. Would Mycroft send people to take Sherlock's things? Would they give them away? Store them? Throw them in the trash?

John shook his head. No. Despite how little Mycroft outwardly cared for his younger brother, he would never just get rid of Sherlock's belongings.

But, of course, this meant the flat would be empty. Which meant it would one day be let out to a new tenant. It just didn't feel right. 221B Baker Street was _their_ home; _Sherlock's_ home. The idea that it could belong to anyone else was unthinkable. But it would happen. One day, it would happen.

John tilted his head a little as his eyes fell on a pad of paper on the table. He smiled as he set his bag down and grabbed the pad and a pen, striding over to and settling into his red plaid armchair—a chair that had technically been Sherlock's; John certainly hadn't been the one to bring it into the flat. He looked across to Sherlock's black leather armchair, sitting empty and forgotten.

John shook his head as he looked down at the paper. _No. Never forgotten._ He placed the pen to the paper and began writing.

" _Dear Future Tenant,_

 _Welcome to your new home. I hope you enjoy living at Baker Street as much as my flatmate and I have. There have been many adventures, both within these walls and without. But one thing that always remained the same was our home. It was our refuge, our retreat. Despite the fact that my flatmate disrupted that retreat on a near hourly basis._

 _Please take care of the place. The idea of leaving it behind at all is heartbreaking, and the thought that its future occupant will not hold it in the same respect nearly kills me. As for the bullet holes in the sitting room wall, the grooves in the mantle, the stains on the kitchen floor and the burns in the kitchen ceiling, it's a long story, and I do apologize. If you've read my blog, then you'll know my flatmate._

 _If any of my mail slips through, please forward it to the address below._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Dr. John Watson_

 _105C Ledbury Road_

 _London, England W11 2"_

John tore the page from the pad and folded it into thirds. He looked around, searching for a decent place to put it, and his eyes landed on the penknife stuck into the mantle. Smiling, John stood and moved to the fireplace, yanking the knife out of the wood, setting the letter on the mantle and stabbing the knife through it.

He turned and went back to grab his bag, heading for the door. He looked back at the room, taking one last look at it, and then turned and closed the door, marching down the stairs.

* * *

 **3 July 2009**

Sherlock Holmes stepped into the corridor of 221 Baker Street, heading towards the glass door next to the staircase and knocking on it.

Mrs. Hudson pulled the door open after a moment. "Sherlock!" She gave him a quick hug. "It's been too long. You never call!"

"Only allowed phone calls to family in rehab," Sherlock told her as he stepped inside and headed through to the sitting room.

"Rehab?" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed as she closed her door and followed. Her shoulders slumped as she stopped in the doorway. "Oh, Sherlock, you didn't."

"Please don't start," Sherlock muttered as he dropped into her armchair. "I get enough of it from Mycroft."

"You swore it was a professional interest," said Mrs. Hudson.

"It was," Sherlock defended himself.

"Drug addiction has nothing to do with detective work, Sherlock Holmes," Mrs. Hudson told him with a stern wag of her finger before she moved into the kitchen.

"Well, I'm clean now," Sherlock told her. "It was the only way Lestrade would let me in on his cases anymore."

"Well, at least that man has a good head on his shoulders," said Mrs. Hudson in the other room.

"Doubt it," muttered Sherlock as he pulled his phone out.

"So, when did you leave the hospital?" called Mrs. Hudson.

"Yesterday," Sherlock answered.

"Have you found a place to live yet?"

"Bedsit." Sherlock tapped away at his phone. "It's the only thing I can afford on the weekly allowance Mycroft gives me."

"Allowance?"

Sherlock sneered at the thought of Mycroft's meddling. "My dear brother has locked my bank accounts and will release them in six months if I am able to prove I can function on my own."

Mrs. Hudson came back into the sitting room with a tray of tea, setting it on the table next to the armchair. "Oh, that's perfect! The gentleman currently renting my flat upstairs is moving out in four months. He's only using it for storage, so you're welcome to take a look."

Sherlock tilted his head in thought as he pocketed his phone. "I believe I will." He accepted the cup of tea from Mrs. Hudson.

"Do you have any interesting cases yet?" asked Mrs. Hudson. "Oh, well, if you just left yesterday, you probably don't yet."

"Actually, I have three," Sherlock told her, taking a sip of tea. "Nothing above a four."

"Well, something will turn up soon," Mrs. Hudson assured him.

Taking one last drink of tea, Sherlock set his tea back on the tray next to him. "One can hope. Upstairs, then?" He pushed himself to his feet.

"Yes, the flat on the first floor," she told him, pointing towards the doorway.

Sherlock passed back through the ground-floor flat and out into the corridor, heading up the stairs. Once he reached the first-floor landing, he opened the door to the flat and stepped inside. There were several boxes lined up and stacked against the walls of what could be a very comfortable sitting room. His eyes moved over the room, already mentally arranging his furniture and possessions (sofa along that wall, armchair in front of the fireplace, violin and music stand in front of the window, Billy the skull on the mantel—).

Sherlock frowned as his eyes narrowed in on the mantelpiece over the fireplace. There was a piece of paper stabbed into the wood with a penknife. He took a look around the room once again. The boxes were stacked very neatly, and from the labels on the boxes, they had been organized in a very specific way. The organization—along with the labels and cleanroom-like state of the flat—spoke of an extreme OCD. This was not a person to stab a knife into their mantel. So, who put it there?

Sherlock strode forward and pulled the knife from the mantel, looking at it.

 _Simple penknife purchased at a convenience store._

He turned it over and spotted a chip on the handle, but other than that, there was nothing remarkable about it at all.

Sherlock picked up the paper and looked it over.

 _Torn from a legal pad. Folded neatly and evenly into thirds. Neat, professional person, most likely well-educated and disciplined._

He unfolded the paper and glanced at the handwriting.

 _Doctor, but tries hard to break away from doctor's handwriting. Compassionate, thinks of others._

He then began reading the letter.

" _Dear Future Tenant,_

 _Welcome to your new home. I hope you enjoy living at Baker Street as much as my flatmate and I have. There have been many adventures, both within these walls and without. But one thing that always remained the same was our home. It was our refuge, our retreat. Despite the fact that my flatmate disrupted that retreat on a near hourly basis._

 _Please take care of the place. The idea of leaving it behind at all is heartbreaking, and the thought that its future occupant will not hold it in the same respect nearly kills me. As for the bullet holes in the sitting room wall, the grooves in the mantle, the stains on the kitchen floor and the burns in the kitchen ceiling, it's a long story, and I do apologize. If you've read my blog, then you'll know my flatmate._

 _If any of my mail slips through, please forward it to the address below._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Dr. John Watson_

 _105C Ledbury Road_

 _London, England W11 2"_

Sherlock frowned in confusion. It was highly unlikely the previous tenant left this, because the current tenant surely would have removed it and fixed the groove the knife left. That meant someone else came in and left it on the mantelpiece. Which was evident in the fact that the damages mentioned in the letter were nowhere to be found.

But the letter in itself intrigued him. Why would a disciplined, courteous, obviously military man break into someone's flat to leave this kind of a note?

Looking at the sentence about a blog, Sherlock pulled his phone out and typed "Dr. John Watson" into the internet search engine. Multiple results came up, but none of them involved a personal blog. Sherlock looked back at the letter, his curiosity piqued at the puzzle in front of him. He stowed his phone into his greatcoat pocket as he turned and hurried down the stairs and into Mrs. Hudson's flat.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called, finding her still in her sitting room. "I need paper and pen."

"Oh, did you like it?" asked Mrs. Hudson. "If not, there's a basement flat that—"

Sherlock spotted a flower-decorated notebook and snatched it from the table by the door, grabbing the pen next to it, and he rushed back out the door. Entering the flat upstairs, he found a sturdy surface, flipped to a blank page of the book and set about writing his letter.

" _Dr. Watson,_

 _I'm afraid you must be mistaken. No one has lived in 221B Baker Street for years, not to mention that the bullet holes, mantle grooves, stains and burns do not exist. I would say you placed this letter in the wrong flat, except that your medical profession and military background suggest otherwise. I am intrigued as to the purpose of your letter, though. If you weren't mistaken in the flat, why did you write it?_

 _You mentioned a blog, but I was unable to find it. What's the web address?_

 _One final question for now: Afghanistan or Iraq?_

 _Sherlock Holmes"_

Sherlock took the knife from the mantle, placed the paper on the wood and stabbed the knife through it. Smirking at his handiwork, he turned and hurried back down to Mrs. Hudson's flat.

"Mrs. Hudson, how often does your tenant visit his flat?" asked Sherlock.

"Oh, hardly at all," Mrs. Hudson answered with a wave of her hand.

Sherlock nodded, confident this Dr. Watson would find his note. "Good." His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out, reading the text. His face lit up. "Excellent! Murder-suicide. Lestrade is lost, as usual." He put the phone away as he nodded at Mrs. Hudson. "Thanks for the tea." He rushed out the door and the building without another word, hailing a taxi.

* * *

 **Not sure how well this story will do, but I am going to try to do my best.**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter One

 **So sorry for the delay! I had to graduate college. I was going to do one John scene and one Sherlock scene each chapter, but decided to split it up until they both get on the same page as to what it actually happening with the letters.**

 **Also, I hope I made Sherlock's death seem realistic. But don't get all sad! You can't just permanently kill off Sherlock Holmes. I have a plan.**

* * *

 **8 July 2011**

John opened the door of his new flat, his hands full of groceries. For the first time in the past five days since moving in, he had found the time to do the shopping. He had been too busy settling his things in and working, and so he had ordered takeout and grabbed meals while he was out. He was hoping that by making himself more at home, it would start to feel so. So far, though, this was definitely not Baker Street.

John paused in the doorway, the groceries still in his hands. Something was different. He didn't know what, but years of military training—and exposure to Sherlock Holmes—was telling him to be on edge.

Quietly setting the groceries on the floor, he made sure to give a kick to the door so the sound of the door closing echoed into the flat and gave the impression that he hadn't suspected a thing. He moved along the corridor to the main area of his flat, drawing his pistol out of his jacket and silently readying it. He paused at the end of the hall and then moved through the doorway, aiming his gun into his sitting room.

Sitting on the sofa, Mycroft Holmes was balancing his umbrella upright on the floor, his fingers on the handle. "Good afternoon, John."

John dropped his gun to his side, sighing as he closed his eyes and released the tension in his body. "Mysterious black cars got boring, did they?"

"This required a more delicate touch," Mycroft told him, leaning the umbrella against the sofa cushion next to him, and reached into his jacket, pulling out at thick, folded set of papers.

John tucked his gun back into his jacket. "What's that?"

"Sherlock Holmes' will," Mycroft told him.

John froze for a long moment, his eyes straying to the papers in Mycroft's hands. "Why does that concern me?" he finally asked.

"You are one of the only true friends Sherlock has ever had," Mycroft told him. "Surely you didn't think he would forget you."

John gave a small shrug, sitting on a dining chair opposite the sofa. "I didn't think he would care about his possessions enough to go through them like that. I would have thought he would leave everything to his family and just be done with it."

Mycroft gave a nod as he unfolded the will and turned the pages. "While the majority of his assets have been left to myself and our parents, there are certain items he has imparted to certain individuals." He came to a stop on a page and glance at John. "If I may…"

John hesitated for a moment, stunned, before clearing his throat and nodding.

Mycroft looked back down at the will. "'I wish I could express my gratitude to you with more than just possessions. I will never be able to repay the debt I owe you as a friend, a partner and a confidant. You were the bravest, kindest, wisest and strongest man that I have ever had the good fortune of knowing.'"

John stared down at the will Mycroft was reading from, shocked. He never knew Sherlock felt things like that. The man was always so stoney-faced and tight-lipped. Sherlock had finally revealed that he considered John to be his only friend a few months ago, but John never knew Sherlock held him in such high regard.

"'And so, to my very dear friend Dr. John Watson, I leave my most prized possession: my Stradivarius. I hope that it will help him to remember me.'"

John's jaw dropped a little. His violin? Sherlock was leaving him his violin? He knew the detective tended to appear almost careless with the violin, but John knew that Sherlock guarded that instrument with a fiery passion. If it were ever damaged or destroyed… And Sherlock was trusting John with it?

"'He's also the only one I trust to look after it,'" Mycroft added.

John let out a chuckle. Now, **that** sounded more like Sherlock.

Mycroft folded up the will and stuffed it back into his jacket. "Sherlock also left you his deerstalker and the two armchairs in Baker Street along with a generous among of money in order to 'pay you back for all the grievances you suffered as my flatmate.'"

John smiled, touched at the final act of his friend. He had already taken the deerstalker and placed it in his closet as a keepsake, but he found himself pleased to inherit the armchairs. The idea of getting to keep his armchair—and Sherlock's—filled him with a certain satisfaction. Sherlock was trusting him with items that had been big parts of him. It was like he had known exactly which items John would have picked to keep for himself.

"You are welcome to stop by Baker Street for those items at any time," Mycroft told him. "I will not be collecting anything from the flat for a few months."

John nodded his understanding. "Right. Well…thank you. This was…" He trailed off, letting the sentiment hang in the air. "So, how did you get his will released so soon? It barely been a month."

"Working in the British government has its perks," Mycroft stated softly. He glanced at his watch. "Speaking of, I must be off." He stood, picking up his umbrella, and moved towards the door. He then came to a stop before he entered the hallway and stood there for a long moment.

"Mycroft?" prompted John.

Mycroft paused a moment longer before speaking. "He wasn't supposed to die, John."

John blinked a couple of times. "What do you mean?"

Mycroft slowly turned to look at him. "We had a plan. We had several, in fact, prepared based on whatever action Moriarty would take on that rooftop."

John stared at him, unable to understand. "Wait, what do you mean, you had plans?"

"We orchestrated the whole thing," Mycroft explained. "We knew Moriarty would come after Sherlock and destroy his reputation. We let him because we needed him to show his hand. We also knew he wanted Sherlock dead eventually, so we planned for it. Sherlock was to contact me with the code word for the plan we would use. The code word Sherlock sent was for a plan involving Sherlock landing on an airbag, out of sight behind the ambulance station. The airbag would then be moved and a body double thrown to the pavement by the time you had run around the station. The cyclist would then hit you, distracting you long enough for the body to be taken away and Sherlock to replace it. Blood bags would be used on his face and around his head for effect, and he would use a squash ball under his armpit to cut off his pulse in the definite chance you would check for one."

John was confused. It was all just as it had happened. Everything he had just described had happened; the whole "fake suicide" plan had happened, so why was Mycroft telling him Sherlock was dead?

"But something went horribly wrong," Mycroft went on. "Just like us, Moriarty planned ahead." He took what seemed to be a settling breath before continuing. "Some of Sherlock's homeless network at the scene—dressed as hospital personnel—noticed something wrong with Sherlock after he hit the airbag. The person applying makeup to simulate impact injuries noticed that Sherlock's breathing had become labored, more labored than jumping onto an airbag from a great height should cause. Once he was lying on the pavement, another of the homeless network monitored the pulse of the arm not impeded by the squash ball. Sherlock's heart rate was elevated."

John's brain automatically went into diagnostic mode, listing each of the symptoms and piecing them together as Mycroft continued.

 _Tachycardia and shortness of breath. Panic attack? Ricing poisoning? Tetanus?_

It wasn't enough to go on at this point. There were too many conditions with those symptoms.

"We hurried to get him onto a stretcher and into the hospital," Mycroft went on. "On the way, Sherlock was complaining of severe chest pain. By the time he had been taken to a private room, he had lost consciousness."

 _Chest pain and fainting. Hyperthyroidism? Anemia?_

"Before the doctors could complete any tests required for a diagnosis…he was dead," finished Mycroft. "Several attempts to resuscitate him were unsuccessful. An autopsy revealed the presence of multiple blood clots in his lungs."

John closed his eyes as he took a shaky breath, connecting the symptoms. "Pulmonary embolism."

Mycroft nodded. "His body was riddled with them. It was only a matter of time."

"But how?" asked John. "He was healthy, active. How could Moriarty have…"

"A toxicology screen of his body showed abundant amounts of tranexamic acid," Mycroft explained. "I trust you know what it is."

"Antifibrinolytic," said John in a quiet voice. "Used in cases of excessive bleeding to help the blood clot."

Mycroft nodded once. "With all the running around he did the days before his death, the blood clots must have dislodged at that time, and the impact with the airbag was just the trauma the clots needed to do their damage."

"He had to have been ingesting the stuff for weeks, though," said John. "How did Moriarty get it to him?"

"The sugar tin near the kettle had been laced with it. Every time he had tea, he was poisoning himself."

It was brilliant. Moriarty must have figured out that John didn't take sugar with his coffee or tea and put the drug in the sugar, knowing Sherlock would be the only one affected. Did he have people spying on them? No, wait, John had put that fact in his blog when he had talked about Sherlock checking Henry Knight's sugar for the hallucinogenic drug in "The Hounds of Baskerville."

John chuckled wearily as he shook his head. "Of course it was in the bloody sugar."

"The only sign we could have had as to his predicament would have been noticeable only by Sherlock in the days before the blood clots embolized, but as you know—" began Mycroft.

"He's not the best at taking care of himself," John finished quietly.

Mycroft was quiet for a moment. "Although you _wouldn't_ have been told had things turned out differently, I do wish I could have brought news of Sherlock's survival."

John nodded gratefully as Mycroft turned and left.

* * *

"Thanks for the help, Greg," said John as he led the way into Baker Street.

"No problem," Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade replied as they made their way up the stairs. "Least I could do."

John reached the first floor and entered the flat, taking a solemn look around the sitting room. He then moved over to the armchairs, moving the small tables next to them over against the wall. He headed over to Sherlock's leather chair. "Best do this one first. It's heavier. Get it over with?"

"Right," said Lestrade, moving over next to one of the arms and squatting down next to it. As he took hold of the bottom, he looked up to see that John was staring down at the chair. "You okay?"

John stared at the chair another moment and then looked at Lestrade. "It seems wrong, you know. Moving it."

Lestrade released the chair and rested his arms on his legs. "Yeah… Better with you than Mycroft, though, right?"

John chuckled. "Oh, yeah. I can't imagine the look on Sherlock's face if Mycroft got his hands on it." He looked back at the chair and sighed. "Right." He knelt on the other side of the chair.

John and Lestrade spent the next twenty minutes loading the two armchairs into the rental truck parked out front.

Lestrade climbed into the driver's seat of the truck. "Ready?"

"Yeah, just need to get one more thing," John told him before turning back to the building and heading up to the flat.

John crossed through the sitting room to the table that had stood behind Sherlock's armchair, where the violin and bow lay. John picked the case up from the floor in the corner, placing it on the dining table and opening it. John picked the violin up from the table and held it in front of himself, staring at it. It felt strange that with all the songs composed and recited, all the middle of the night screeching and concerts, that it would never be played again. Perhaps he could learn how to play. It couldn't be any harder than the clarinet, could it?

John carefully placed the violin and then the bow into the case, securing them and then closing it. As he grabbed the handle and lifted the case, he turned towards the door and headed towards it. Frowning, he slowed and then stopped, standing faced towards the door before turning and looking at the mantle.

 _That doesn't look right._

John set the violin case on the coffee table and moved towards the fireplace, narrowing his eyes at the paper stabbed into the mantle.

 _That is not the paper I used._

He pulled the knife from the mantle and set it there as he grabbed the paper, opening it. It looked like the kind of stationery Mrs. Hudson always used. And the handwriting…

 _No. It couldn't be._

" _Dr. Watson,_

 _I'm afraid you must be mistaken. No one has lived in 221B Baker Street for years, not to mention that the bullet holes, mantle grooves, stains and burns do not exist. I would say you placed this letter in the wrong flat, except that your medical profession and military background suggest otherwise. I am intrigued as to the purpose of your letter, though. It you weren't mistaken in the flat, why did you write it?_

 _You mentioned a blog, but I was unable to find it. What's the web address?_

 _One final question for now: Afghanistan or Iraq?_

 _Sherlock Holmes"_

Anger flooded through John. How dare this person try to personate Sherlock Holmes! To _**him**_! And so soon after his death! Did people have no decency?

John glanced down at the pad of paper he had discarded on the table earlier that week, and he grabbed it and a pen and went to work.

" _I don't know who you think you are. How dare you try to pretend to be him. Have you no respect? Were the tabloid rumors and newspaper gossip not enough that you have to come to his_ _ **home**_ _to torture me?_

 _I don't know what you were trying to pull with that letter, pretending not to know me or Sherlock, but it's not funny. Nice try at deductions, by the way, but it doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to see that I'm an army doctor. That's public record, not to mention, on my blog_ _ **about Sherlock**_ _._

 _If you ever come to 221B again, I know some very powerful people in the British government who would not hesitate to hunt you down. You people may not believe in Sherlock Holmes, but some of us still do. Please just leave me alone."_

John vehemently scratched a line under the last sentence and threw the pen down on the table, ripping the paper from the pad and heading over to the mantle. He picked up the knife and stabbed the paper into the mantle. He then turned and snatched the violin case from the coffee table and stormed out the door and down the stairs. Slamming the front door behind him, he walked around the truck and climbed into the passenger seat, his jaw clenched.

"Everything all right?" Lestrade asked him in concern.

"It's fine," John almost bit off, trying to calm himself down. "Just someone playing a sick joke." He took a breath. "I'll be fine. Let's go."

Lestrade nodded and pulled away from the curb.

John stared down at the case in his lap. Hopefully, this would be the end of it. This person will see the note, have their laugh and leave it alone. He shook his head a little as the thought of that note brought it all up again. He couldn't do this. He couldn't let everything that reminds him of Sherlock get to him. This was just some jerk who had read his blog and asked the same questions Sherlock would have—

John stared out of the windscreen, his jaw slack.

" _One final question for now: Afghanistan or Iraq?"_

" _Afghanistan or Iraq?"_

John had never put that bit in his blog.

* * *

 **The next chapter hopefully won't be so long coming.**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Two

 **No new chapter, sorry! Someone was awesome enough to point out I had the year for this chapter wrong. Thanks!**

 **11 July 2009**

Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan stood near the door of the back office in the clothing store, her arms crossed. "Why did you call in a consultant? We should be alerting the press."

"Because no one on our team can figure out how the suspect got away," Lestrade told her.

"What does that matter?" Donovan replied. "The point is that he did, and the longer we stay here, the longer he has to get away."

Sherlock tuned out the conversation; it was unimportant. The sergeant was just trying to find a way to show off. First day in her new promotion. No matter. Sherlock would knock some sense into her about how a professional works. And who knows? Perhaps she'll turn out to be one of the sensible officers like Lestrade.

Sherlock moved through the crime scene, his eyes darting this way and that.

 _Scuff on the desk surface._

 _White crumbs on the floor._

 _Missing padlock on the front door._

 _Heavy-duty gridwork on dropped ceiling._

Sherlock spun towards the two officers. "For God's sake, Lestrade! Tell me you called me to get me out of that dreadful bedsit for the night. You can't possibly have _not_ solved this."

"Exactly, so let's get out there and track this guy down," said Donovan.

"What for?" asked Sherlock.

Donovan frowned, almost in disbelief. "'What for'? To catch him!"

"That would be extremely counterproductive, Sergeant," said Sherlock, pacing across the room to the far corner where several items stood. "One only needs to look at the evidence to find him."

"What evidence?" asked Donovan.

Sherlock merely pointed towards the front door momentarily before looking back at the corner, seemingly searching for something.

Lestrade and Donovan followed his gesture towards the door.

"The door?" asked Lestrade.

"The lock," said Sherlock as he searched. "It's missing."

"Well, of course it's missing!" said Donovan. "That's how he got in!"

"Then why isn't it on the floor?" Sherlock moved on from the corner to a storage closet next to him.

"He probably took it with him," said Donovan.

"Oh, yes, after successfully pulling off his brilliant heist and disappearing into the wind, he takes the smoking gun with him as a souvenir," Sherlock muttered sarcastically. "He meant to leave no trace. He was going to replace the lock when he left."

"But he didn't," Donovan told him.

"No, which means he's still here," said Sherlock. "Ah, perfect!" He pulled a metal rod from the closet; it was one of those hanger hookers that the sales associates took hanging clothes down from the walls with. He began adjusting it to a longer length.

"What do you mean he's here?" burst Donovan, clearly fed up with the whole conversation. "We searched the whole place!"

Sherlock looked up at her as he stepped over to a desk in the middle of the room, his eyes wide and apologetic. "Oh, have you? So sorry. I didn't realize."

He suddenly jabbed the metal instrument up into the tiles of the dropped ceiling, knocking one of them up and loose. The next second, the tiles caved in as a body tumbled to the ground in front of them. It was a man dressed in dark clothing, a backpack flung over his shoulder. Something had fallen from one of the backpack's pockets and tumbled to the floor: a padlock. Donovan looked up at Sherlock, her jaw open in shock.

"Then this must be the officer you went to search the area above the dropping ceiling." Sherlock set the rod onto the desk top. "Call me when you have an _actual_ case." He turned and headed back to the front door, leaving them to arrest the thief.

Sherlock pulled his phone out, checking his website for a case. But there was nothing. No one had posted a single entry or email since he had created the site earlier this week. How was he supposed to survive on just the cases Scotland Yard called him on? Grimacing in frustration, Sherlock shoved his phone back into his pocket, changing direction back towards his bedsit on Montague Street.

He had hardly had any worthwhile cases in the past eight days, which gave him plenty of time to investigate the mystery of Baker Street. He had nearly exhausted his resources looking for a Dr. John Watson, retired army doctor, and so far, he had found nothing. It didn't make any sense. Surely the Royal Army Medical Corps wouldn't lose track of one of their own. Unless he was mistaken in his deduction, which was a ridiculous thought.

Sherlock had visited the flat every evening, waiting for his note to be replaced by the doctor's. He didn't really expect to find anything. Dr. Watson had moved out—supposedly—and would have no reason to visit the flat again. Of course, that was if Dr. Watson was psychological disturbed and believed he had actually lived there. If Dr. Watson was sane—and this was the most likely scenario—then he had other reasons for leaving that note and would probably be back soon.

Which is where he should probably be headed. After all, he had been quite busy the last couple of days and hadn't checked the flat.

Sherlock turned and headed for Baker Street.

* * *

Sherlock stepped into the flat, heading for the mantelpiece and pausing. He noticed two things immediately. The first was that his note was gone; it was replaced with a different piece of paper. The second was that the penknife holding it in place had been shoved into the mantel with considerable force. Dr. Watson—at least he hoped it was the doctor—had not appreciated his letter.

Sherlock stepped forward and pulled the knife free after a good yank, retrieving the paper from the end of it and unfolding it. The army doctor had not taken care to fold it neatly this time, and the handwriting was hurried—yet another sign of his agitation. There was no greeting at the top; it just jumped right in.

 _"_ _I don't know who you think you are._ _How dare you try to pretend to be him._ _Have you no respect?_ _Were the tabloid rumors and newspaper gossip not enough that you have to come to his_ _ **home**_ _to torture me?"_

Sherlock frowned in confusion. From the righteous indignation practically screaming from the page, the doctor apparently thought that he knew Sherlock. And that Sherlock lived at Baker Street.

 _Hmm._ _Maybe "psychologically disturbed" was a correct deduction after all._

 _"_ _I don't know what you were trying to pull with that letter, pretending not to know me or Sherlock, but it's not funny._ _Nice try at deductions, by the way, but it doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to see that I'm an army doctor._ _That's public record, not to mention, on my blog_ _ **about Sherlock**_ _._

 _If you ever come to 221B again, I know some very powerful people in the British government who would not hesitate to hunt you down._ _You people may not believe in Sherlock Holmes, but some of us still do._ _Please just leave me alone."_

Sherlock rolled his eyes at that last paragraph. _The British government._ _Figures._

If he didn't know any better, he would say his brother had finally gone off the deep end. But this couldn't be his brother. Mycroft would never participate in this nonsense.

 _My parents?_

This would be just the sort of thing his mother would think up. But what for? And it doesn't explain his deductions about the author. This Dr. Watson was a delightful enigma. And from his writings, he knew Sherlock. Or, at least, he thought he knew Sherlock. But the closest thing Sherlock had ever had to a friend was his childhood pet. This man had to be mistaken. But he was awfully adamant in his mistake. He seemed determined to defend Sherlock, despite whatever caused their separation. Had they had some sort of disagreement or fight? Or could it have been something worse?

Sherlock shook his head. What was he doing? He was acting as though this were real! He had never met this person in his life! But the conviction of Watson's words was such that he had a hard time not believing him. But he had never lived at 221B Baker Street!

 _Not yet, remember?_

Sherlock frowned and shook that thought away, looking down at the letter. Staring at it another moment, he set it down and pulled a small notebook from his pocket.

 _Another letter wouldn't hurt._

 _"_ _Dr. Watson,_

 _I apologize if I have offended you, and if you knew me, you'd know how rare that is._ _The apologizing, not the offending._ _Apparently, I inadvertently offend people on a daily basis._ _It was not my intention to offend you._ _I merely wished to gather information about your intentions in writing that first letter._

 _You write as though you know me, which is impossible._ _I'm sure I would remember meeting someone who was generous enough to defend someone like me._ _I also gather that I was this supposed flatmate at Baker Street._ _From your description in your first letter, it certainly sounds like me, but the landlady says that 221B won't be free to rent for another four months._

 _You certainly intrigue me._ _Not only have you described my character as though from personal experience, but you choose to defend a person of such character._

 _You say that your time in the army is of public record, but the RAMC has no record of a retired doctor by the name of Dr. John Watson._ _How do you explain this?_

 _If I may ask again, what is the web address of your blog?_

 _Sherlock Holmes"_

Sherlock looked back over Dr. Watson's letter, but could find nothing else that he had questions about. Well, other than the British government, but he couldn't care less about his brother right now.

Folding the letter up, he stabbed it into the mantel and headed back through the door, determined more than ever to find this Dr. John Watson.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Three

 **9 July 2011**

" _Afghanistan or Iraq?"_

John had never put the actual conversation from their first meeting on his blog. He had only explained the circumstances. The only people who knew Sherlock's first words to him were the two of them and Mike. Which was his first stop. He knew Mike would never pull this kind of trick, so the question was, did anyone else know?

John knocked on the doorframe of the office and watched his friend look up from his desk.

"John!" Dr. Mike Stamford greeted as he stood and moved around the desk. "Good to see you. How are you holding up?" He held out his hand.

John shook Mike's hand. "As well as I can. Can I talk to you for a moment?"

"Sure," said Mike, stepping back around his desk as John sat in front of it.

"This might be a strange question," John began as Mike sat at his desk. "Did you ever tell anyone about when Sherlock and I met? Like, the details?"

Mike's eyes tracked off to the side as he thought back. After a moment, he shrugged and shook his head. "I don't think so. I mean, it was all on your blog. If anyone asked, I just told them about the blog."

John held his hand up a little. "You're sure? You never told anyone what Sherlock's first words to me were?"

"No, I don't think that ever came up," said Mike.

John sighed as he lowered his hand and looked down at the floor.

"What's going on, John?" asked Mike.

John looked up at him and hesitated, wondering how much to tell. Would he get judged for dwelling on what had to be a prank? But how could it be a prank if no one knew about that question? Deciding that it would be best to have a friend to handle this with, he sat forward a little.

"About a week ago, I left a letter for the next person to live at Baker Street," John began. "When I stopped by yesterday to pick up some things, there was a new note there. Someone had read my letter and…" He shook his head as he tried to find a way to explain. "It was as if someone had written a letter as Sherlock before he met me. The words that were used, the phrasing—It was like Sherlock was speaking those words. And then, it ended with one question: 'Afghanistan or Iraq?'"

John drilled Mike with a hard look. "I never put that question into my blog, and you were the only one in the room when he said it. Are you sure you never mentioned it to anyone?"

Mike shook his head. "Not that exact wording. If I ever did talk about it, I merely said that he deduced you were an army doctor. I don't think I would have recounted it word for word."

John let out a sigh as he leaned back in the chair, running a hand over his face. "Then what is this?" He let his arm fall to the armrest. "Who could possibly have written that letter?"

"Maybe someone just happened to ask it," Mike offered. "Maybe it doesn't mean anything."

John's frowning eyes had tracked off to the wall, his mind still trying to sort through it all. "Maybe…"

"You still have the letter?" asked Mike. "Maybe there's fingerprints you could track."

John closed his eyes in realization. "Oh, dammit! I think I threw it away."

A voice in the back of his head—that sounded suspiciously like a certain consulting detective—said, _Sherlock wouldn't have made that mistake._

 _Oh, shut up!_ John told it.

"Well, if this person writes again, take it to Scotland Yard," Mike told him.

John nodded. "Thanks, Mike. I don't know why I didn't think of that earlier." He stood from the chair.

Mike shrugged. "Fresh eyes. Good luck."

"Ta," said John as he turned and left.

* * *

John spent the next few days stopping by Baker Street, each time finding his own note still stabbed into the mantel. It wasn't until July 12th that anything happened.

John walked into 221B, glancing immediately at the mantelpiece. His brows rose in eagerness as he spotted the new piece of paper. He moved towards the fireplace and removed the letter, unfolding it.

" _Dr. Watson,_

 _I apologize if I have offended you, and if you knew me, you'd know how rare that is. The apologizing, not the offending. Apparently, I inadvertently offend people on a daily basis. It was not my intention to offend you. I merely wished to gather information about your intentions in writing that first letter._

 _You write as though you know me, which is impossible. I'm sure I would remember meeting someone who was generous enough to defend someone like me. I also gather that I was this supposed flatmate at Baker Street. From your description in your first letter, it certainly sounds like me, but the landlady says that 221B won't be free to rent for another four months._

 _You certainly intrigue me. Not only have you described my character as though from personal experience, but you choose to defend a person of such character._

 _You say that your record in the army is of public record, but the RAMC has no record of a retired doctor by the name of Dr. John Watson. How do you explain this?_

 _If I may ask again, what is the web address of your blog?_

 _Sherlock Holmes"_

John shook his head, completely bewildered. Every word in the letter screamed of Sherlock; he practically jumped right off the page. But it was impossible. Not only had Mycroft confirmed that Sherlock's fake suicide plan had failed, but his body had been in the coffin at the funeral. He had seen it the whole time, and He. Was. Dead.

And yet…

 _How had he known about Sherlock's question?_

John looked back up at the first paragraph.

" _Apparently, I inadvertently offend people on a daily basis."_

He smiled. The sentence was just so…Sherlock. The nonchalance, the ignorance of the fact that he was offending people; it was all him. At this point, the only person that could be writing these letters is Mycroft. He was the only one smart enough and close enough to Sherlock to impersonate him so well.

John glanced at the paper in his hands. _Well, hopefully, the fingerprints will tell. As long as he didn't wear gloves._

John began to fold the letter up to stuff into his jacket and then paused. He glanced at the legal pad still sitting on the table at the windows and back at the paper in his hands.

 _Don't. You shouldn't encourage this maniac._

 _You don't know he's a maniac._

 _How could this possibly turn out good?_

 _Worth looking into._

 _This could be one of Moriarty's men._

 _Could be dangerous._

John gave something halfway between a smirk and a grimace as he shook his head. He marched over, setting the letter on the table and picking up the legal pad.

" _Dear Mystery Friend (because I refuse to call you Sherlock Holmes),_

 _How did you know? How did you know to ask that question: Afghanistan or Iraq? Only three people know about that—me, Mike Stamford and Sherlock—and you are none of them. So, how?"_

 _Why do you write as if you know nothing about me? Or Sherlock? Of course I know Sherlock. We've been flatmates since 2010. Why are you doing this?_

 _I don't know why the RAMC wouldn't have a record of me. They usually keep excellent tabs on exemplary soldiers. I didn't earn my rank of captain for nothing._

 _I'm not usually in the habit of indulging a charade such as this, but it's **(fanfiction won't let me put a web address on here, but the address is www dot johnwatsonblog dot co dot uk)**. Shouldn't be too hard to find; it's only one of the most popular sites in London. Knock yourself out._

 _I don't know why I'm even writing back. It'll only encourage you. Mycroft, if this is you, you vindictive prick, I'll punch your lights out. British government be damned._

 _Either way, I'll have my answers soon enough. I'm taking your letter to Scotland Yard to run your fingerprints. Just giving you a heads-up. I haven't had a good manhunt in months."_

John glanced back over Sherlock's—

 _No, it isn't Sherlock!_ he reminded himself.

—the stranger's letter once more to see if any more questions arose. Satisfied, he signed the bottom and folded it, securing it under the penknife. John stared at it for a moment before turning and heading out of the flat.

* * *

"John," said Lestrade as John poked his head into the inspector's office. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"Me neither," said John. "Got a minute?"

"Sure," said Lestrade, waving him in as he sat forward in his chair.

John closed the door and sat in one of the guest chairs in front of the desk. "I need you to run some fingerprints."

Lestrade frowned. "You have a break-in?"

John gave a head tilt. "Sort of." He pulled the letter from his pocket and handed it over. "They're on the paper."

Lestrade read over the letter, his confused frown growing more pronounced the further down he got. And when he got to the signature at the bottom…

Lestrade glanced up at John, his eyes wide. "When did you get this?"

"This morning, Baker Street," John told him. "Someone has been writing notes impersonating Sherlock and leaving them for me. I want to find out who."

Lestrade nodded. "You want to wait? It'll take maybe thirty minutes."

"Yes, I'll wait," John told him. "Thanks."

It actually only took twenty for Lestrade to come back into his office.

"Well, we only got two results," said Lestrade glumly as he came around his desk. He held two sheets of paper out across to him.

John snatched the pages from his hand and looked at them. The top paper showed the prints and statistics for himself, and the second page contained Sherlock's.

John sighed as he dropped his hands to his lap. "You're sure there were no others?"

"Yeah. There were only two sets. Must've worn gloves." Lestrade sighed. "Do you want someone to stake out the flat? Technically, this is trespassing."

John shook his head. "No, I'll handle it." He stared down at the pages.

"What is it?" asked Lestrade.

John hesitated a moment. "I don't know. It's just a feeling I get in the back of my mind about those letters."

"What feeling?"

John looked up at him. "That it really is Sherlock."

* * *

 **Man, I really wish you could do different fonts on here. I would do different handwritten fonts for the letters.**

 **If you want to check out what I think their handwriting looks like in Microsoft Word: Sherlock's letters are in Freestyle Script and John's letters are in Rage Italic. Just FYI.**


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Four

 **I know, I know. They're getting shorter, but don't worry, because the big chapter where they discover the truth is coming soon! Not to mention, when Sherlock catches up to John when they meet, the chapters will be longer while Sherlock lives out the episodes.**

 **I tried to stay as true as I could to the RAMC ranks and titles, but I'm not sure how good I did. After a half hour of research, I decided that it wasn't a very important part of the story and went with what I had.**

* * *

 **11 July 2009**

Sherlock went back to the RAMC, this time looking through the records himself. He found a Major Jack Watson, MSO, OMO (stationed in Iraq); Lieutenant Jonathan L. Watson, CMT (stationed in Afghanistan); and Colonel Jake H. Watson, ADMS, DG, GDMO (on maneuvers in England). He did find a Captain John H. Watson, MD, CMT, but he wasn't retired. He was still deployed in Afghanistan. The secretary he had spoken to several days ago had been correct, then. There really was no record of a retired army doctor named John Watson.

Other than vague clues referring to their supposed acquaintance, Mycroft and—even stranger—Sherlock being in the newspapers, Dr. Watson had not offered up any new information. Sherlock would have to wait for another letter.

He didn't have to wait long.

* * *

 **13 July 2009**

" _Dear Mystery Friend (because I refuse to call you Sherlock Holmes),_

 _How did you know? How did you know to ask that question: Afghanistan or Iraq? Only three people know about that—me, Mike Stamford and Sherlock—and you are none of them. So, how?_

 _Why do you write as if you know nothing about me? Or Sherlock? Of course I know Sherlock. We've been flatmates since 2010. Why are you doing this?_

 _I don't know why the RAMC wouldn't have a record of me. They usually keep excellent tabs on exemplary soldiers. I didn't earn my rank of captain for nothing._

 _I'm not usually in the habit of indulging a charade such as this, but it's www dot johnwatsonblog dot co dot uk **(** **again, fanfiction won't let you put a website on here)**. Shouldn't be too hard to find; it's only one of the most popular sites in London. Knock yourself out._

 _I don't know why I'm even writing back. It'll only encourage you. Mycroft, if this is you, you vindictive prick, I'll punch your lights out. British government be damned._

 _Either way, I'll have my answers soon enough. I'm taking your letter to Scotland Yard to run your fingerprints. Just giving you a heads-up. I haven't had a good manhunt in months._

 _Dr. John Watson"_

There were many things in that letter that gave him pause, but none more so than the year hidden in the second paragraph.

 _2010?_ Sherlock wondered. _Surely that's a brief moment of dyslexia. He can't possibly mean that the two of them first moved in together next year._

Of course, them being flatmates since 2001 didn't make sense either. No matter which way he looked at it, the truth in Dr. Watson's letter eluded him. Either the two of them met eight years ago—which never happened—or they met sometime in 2010—which hasn't happened yet.

 _Just like you moving into Baker Street and the damages to the flat haven't happened either, right?_

Sherlock shook the thought away, not sure what his mind was getting at, and looked back at the letter. First of all, this Dr. Watson apparently knows Mike Stamford. That will be one item on his to-do list. Second, Dr. Watson claims to be a captain. The RAMC records that Sherlock pulled up mentioned a Captain John H. Watson, but he wasn't retired.

 _Not retired yet._

Sherlock shook that thought away yet again.

He finally had the actual web address for the blog. That should clear some of this up.

The comment directed towards Mycroft made him smile. It spoke of a deep familiarity with his brother and how he loved to meddle in other people's affairs.

And the last paragraph intrigued him most of all. Haven't had a good manhunt in months? It appeared that you could take the soldier out of the war, but you couldn't take the war out of the soldier. This John Watson fellow would be a most interesting individual when he tracked him down. Which might be soon, if Dr. Watson was going to go to Scotland Yard. Lestrade would tell him how to find him.

Sherlock pulled his phone out and sent a text off to the inspector.

 **If a Dr. Watson brings in fingerprints to run, text me.**

 **SH**

Sherlock then sent a text to Mike Stamford.

 **I need contact details for Dr. John Watson.**

 **SH**

He then pulled up his web browser and typed the address into the search bar. An error message appeared on the screen reading "Website doesn't exist for **(translate it into a web address)** www dot johnwatsonblog dot co dot uk." Sherlock frowned, double-checking the address; it was correct. And yet, the site did not exist.

 _Not yet._

Sherlock froze as his mind piled all the clues together.

 _A Captain John H. Watson who hasn't retired yet_

 _Dr. Watson says they become flatmates in 2010 at 221B Baker Street_

 _I'll be moving into 221B Baker Street in 2010_

 _The damages Dr. Watson mentioned—mantel grooves, bullet holes, stains and burns—don't exist_

 _A website that doesn't exist yet_

It was as though this letter came from the future. Which was completely impossible.

 _No, the impossible bit is everything Dr. Watson put in his letters. How could he describe you so well if he's never met you?_

Mycroft, that's how.

 **Do you know anyone by the name of Dr. John H. Watson?**

A few seconds after the text went out, his phone rang.

"Another one of your 'friends'?" asked Mycroft.

Mycroft sneering at the word "friend" told Sherlock that he was referring to drug dealers and fellow junkies. He rolled his eyes. "It's for a case."

Which was true: the case of the mysterious army doctor.

"I have never met anyone by that name," Mycroft told him.

"So, you didn't organize this?" asked Sherlock.

"Organize what?"

By the annoyed tone of his brother's voice and the weary sigh in his words, Sherlock could tell Mycroft just wanted to get off the phone. If Mycroft **had** orchestrated the letters, he would stay on the phone to try to persuade Sherlock it wasn't him with some elaborate, no doubt rehearsed, story.

"Nothing," Sherlock told him.

"Sherlock," said Mycroft in a stern voice.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm clean, Mycroft."

"You missed your appointment this morning," Mycroft told him.

"Damn," Sherlock muttered. "Knew I forgot something."

"Two o'clock," Mycroft told him before hanging up.

Sherlock lowered his phone to look at the time: 1:15. Plenty of time to get to his mandatory drug screening. St. Bart's was only twenty minutes away.

So, if Mycroft wasn't involved, then this Dr. Watson knew him, which Sherlock didn't remember. And even if he _had_ forgotten, Dr. Watson wasn't speaking as if he had. He was speaking as though the two of them had had a falling out but still knew each other.

 _If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains—however improbable—must be the truth._

But this—time travel—was beyond impossible. It simply didn't exist.

Sherlock's phone chimed a text alert, and he pulled it out.

 **John Watson? Haven't talked to him in ages. Last I heard, he was in Afghanistan. Can't help you there.**

 **Stamford**

More puzzled than ever, Sherlock pulled out his notebook and began writing.

" _Dr. Watson,_

 _I'm not certain what you meant by knowing about the question. I had deduced you were a soldier and simply wanted to know where you had served. And speaking of Mike Stamford, I asked about you, and he said he hadn't seen you in ages, and last he heard, you were in Afghanistan, which correlates with the RAMC records for Captain John H. Watson._

 _I looked at your blog, and the website doesn't exist. How can you have written a popular blog about me that doesn't exist?_

 _You say we became flatmates in 2010. Could you possibly have meant 2001? I don't know why, since that wouldn't make sense either. I have never met you. But you seem to have met me. How is that possible? How is it possible to receive a letter from someone I have never met who can describe my personality flawlessly, whose army record says he's still deployed in Afghanistan, who writes a blog that doesn't exist, and who says that we are to become flatmates next year?_

 _All of this aside, you appear to be the perfect assistant. Would you like to solve crimes? You can find me at 45 Montague Street, Bloomsbury, London WC1B 5BH._

 _Sherlock Holmes_

 _By the way, I immensely enjoyed your attitude towards my brother. The pompous asshole deserves to be taken down a few pegs."_

Sherlock tore the sheet from the notebook and stabbed it into the mantel, taking Dr. Watson's letter with him and setting out for his appointment with Dr. Hooper at St. Bart's Hospital.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Five

 **13 July 2011**

It couldn't be. It just couldn't be. Mycroft had confirmed that Sherlock **was** actually dead. Sherlock's dead body had been in that casket. Even if Sherlock had managed to trick his own brother, he never would have found a double that looks _exactly_ like him, nor would he have been able to pull off an act that good. John was a doctor and had been a soldier, and he had seen death a hundred times over. There was just something about a dead body that not even the best Hollywood special effects and makeup could fake.

The body in that casket—Sherlock's body—had been dead.

So, if these letters _were_ written by Sherlock… How? How could he be writing letters from beyond the grave? What, he's a _**zombie?!**_

 _If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains—however improbable—must be the truth._

Was Sherlock haunting 221B? Everyone heard about ghost stories from all over the world all the time. It was possible they did exist. How else could he explain these letters?

But if he was, why did he write as though he didn't know him? Was it possible his spirit was confused and didn't remember him? If that was so, should John try to get him to remember? Or would that ruin everything?

" _John."_

Now that John had Sherlock back, should he risk losing him?

"John."

John looked up at Lestrade, who was sitting across from him at the table in the pub. He sighed and dropped his head. "Sorry. Sorry, I…I'm just…thinking over everything."

"Well, unload on me," Lestrade told him.

John hesitated.

"Come on, you said you'd tell me everything," said Lestrade with a pointed look.

John nodded and took a drink of his beer. "All right."

And he leapt into the bizarre tale: the letters, the fingerprints, the deductions that weren't in the blog—everything.

"And these letters," said John, digging into his pocket and pulling the last one out. "I don't know what to make of them. I don't have the first one, but it said something about the damages I mentioned not being there and being unable to find my blog, and then that question: Afghanistan or Iraq?" He handed the second letter over.

Lestrade glanced over it once again.

"What if…" John trailed off before shaking his head.

"What?" asked Lestrade.

John looked back at him, right in the eye. "What if it's Sherlock's ghost?"

Lestrade hesitated and then dropped his gaze. "John—"

"You read that letter yourself," John interrupted. "If that isn't Sherlock, then tell me, what else could it be? Mycroft, maybe, but not even Mycroft could fake Sherlock's handwriting. No one else knows Sherlock well enough to write these letters."

"Except you," Lestrade muttered.

John frowned. "What do you mean?"

Lestrade raised his gaze to John's. "What if this isn't Sherlock? What if it's you?"

"Me?" John asked.

"What if you're writing these letters and you don't know it," said Lestrade.

"Oh, for—" John exclaimed, leaning back from the table.

Lestrade leaned forward to cut him off, raising his hand. "Grief can do terrible things to a person, especially when they watched the person die right in front of them."

"What about the handwriting, then?" asked John. "I couldn't have done that myself."

"You lived with him," said Lestrade. "You saw his handwriting every day."

John shook his head. "No, no, that's not possible."

"But his ghost writing letters to you is, is it?" Lestrade pointed out.

John stared at him for a moment and then hung his head. "Christ, you're right…" He stared down at the table. "What if it is me?"

Lestrade watched him for a moment before nodding once. "Well, there's one way to find out: stakeout."

John raised his head with a frown. "A stakeout?"

Lestrade nodded. "We'll wait in Baker Street for a new letter to show up."

John shook his head. "But—"

"I got no major cases right now and ten days of unused vacation time," Lestrade told him. "Dimmock owes me a favor, anyway."

John hesitated, thinking it through. It would be nice to finally know. And if it was him writing Sherlock's letters, then it's not like he can rely on his own perspective.

"Thanks, Greg," John told him.

"Want to go now?" asked Lestrade.

"Sure," said John, dropping some notes on the table and standing. "We'll stop by Tesco on the way for food. Who know how long this will take."

* * *

John placed the shopping on the kitchen table as Lestrade placed some more bags next to them.

"I'll put 'em away," Lestrade told him. "Go check the mantel."

John did so, crossing into the sitting room and stepping over in front of the fireplace. He perked up at the sight of a different piece of paper. "Greg…"

Lestrade paused in the kitchen as John pulled the penknife out and unfolded the paper. One glance at the signature at the bottom confirmed it.

John glanced over at him. "This one's new."

Lestrade grabbed the last of the cold items and placed them in the fridge before stepping into the sitting room. John turned towards him and read the letter out loud.

" _Dr. Watson,_

 _I'm not certain what you meant by knowing about the question. I had deduced you were a soldier and simply wanted to know where you had served. And speaking of Mike Stamford, I asked about you, and he said he hadn't seen you in ages, and last he heard, you were in Afghanistan, which correlates with the RAMC records for Captain John H. Watson._

 _I looked at your blog, and the website doesn't exist. How can you have written a popular blog about me that doesn't exist?_

 _You say we became flatmates in 2010. Could you possibly have meant 2001? I don't know why, since that wouldn't make sense either. I have never met you. But you seem to have met me. How is that possible? How is it possible to receive a letter from someone I have never met who can describe my personality flawlessly, whose army record says he's still deployed in Afghanistan, who writes a blog that doesn't exist, and who says that we are to become flatmates next year?_

 _All of this aside, you appear to be the perfect assistant. Would you like to solve crimes? You can find me at 45 Montague Street, Bloomsbury, London WC1B 5BH._

 _Sherlock Holmes_

 _By the way, I immensely enjoyed your attitude towards my brother. The pompous asshole deserves to be taken down a few pegs."_

Normally, the postscript would have made John laugh, but he was stuck on another sentence.

John looked up at Lestrade with a frown. "Next year?"

"What?" asked Lestrade.

"He talks about becoming flatmates in 2010 and says that it's strange that I claim this happens ' _next year_ ,'" said John with a frown. "He's writing this from 2009?"

Lestrade stared at him. "Time travel?"

"Or…" began John, a thoughtful look on his face, "if he's a ghost, the reason why he doesn't remember me is because his mind is stuck at a time before we met."

"Yeah…maybe…" muttered Lestrade.

"Or it's me," said John. "I know." He turned and grabbed the notepad from the table, sitting at the table to write. "Well, if it is him…"

" _Dear Sherlock (if it really is you),_

 _I don't know what to believe anymore. Is this really you? Or have I been writing your letters unknowingly?_

 _In response to your offer, God, yes, I would love to solve crimes. I miss our cases more than I thought I would._

 _Everything else in your letter makes sense if you're writing from the year 2009, but that's impossible. You're living two years in the past? How can that be? But if you are, that explains everything—how you don't remember me, why my record and Mike say that I'm still in Afghanistan, why my blog doesn't exist, how you're talking to me in the first place. But, our letters going back and forth through a time portal—that's insane. Unless…_

 _Look, if you're here, find some way to let me know._

 _God, I hope I'm not going crazy._

 _John Watson"_

 _P.S. You're welcome, about your brother. He is pompous. Guess it runs in the family."_

John looked up at Lestrade, handing him the letter. "What do you think?"

As Lestrade looked it over, John began thinking of the hours or even days to come while they waited for whoever or whatever was leaving the letters. Of course, they would have to sleep in shifts so they didn't miss anything, but that didn't rule out John. There was always a chance that John would slip into some kind of trance or something to write Sherlock's letter while Lestrade slept and then switch them out. But then, that didn't explain Sherlock's fingerprints…unless the pad of paper had been used at one point. Apart from setting up a camera in the sitting room, how could they really know?

John's eyes widened. _Know… Something I_ _ **don't**_ _know…_

Lestrade looked up from the letter. "Looks good."

"I've had an idea," said John, snatching the letter back and scribbling another sentence or two at the end of the postscript.

" _Speaking of, is there something you could tell me that Mycroft knows about that you would never tell anyone, not even your best friend? It would help me believe it's you."_

"Good idea," said Lestrade over John's shoulder.

John stood and strode over to the fireplace, fixing the letter in place. He stared at the mantel. "And now, we wait."

* * *

They spent the next thirteen hours in the sitting room of 221B, glancing toward the letter every couple of minutes to make sure it hadn't moved or disappeared. Lestrade took the first sleep shift, and—unless it was himself behind it—John received no mysterious visitors bearing mysterious letters. Upon waking, Lestrade confirmed there were no new letters anywhere he could see; John even emptied his pockets.

When John woke up, Lestrade reported that no one had stopped by, and John's letter was still on the mantel.

John moved over to the mantel while Lestrade watched, inspecting his letter before sighing and turning towards him. "Tea?"

"Sure," said Lestrade.

John turned to look at the letter once more and froze. "Lestrade…"

"What?" asked Lestrade, stepping forward.

"The letter's gone," John told him as he stared at the mantel, the penknife lying on its side and the letter nowhere in sight.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Six

 **12 July 2009**

 **2:00 PM**

Sherlock burst through the doors of the lab at St. Bart's Hospital. He spotted a female doctor standing at a microscope, faced away from the door. She was a very small person with mousy brown hair, and—judging by the straight-leg khaki trousers and simple brown flats on her feet—she liked to dress for comfort rather than looks.

 _Very practical_ , Sherlock noted.

"Dr. Hooper is expecting me," Sherlock said, stepping over to one of the benches and inspecting some Petri dishes.

"Just one moment," came a soft, quiet voice.

Intrigued by one of the samples, Sherlock pulled a glass slide from the table and slid it into the microscope, peering through the eyepieces. _Hmm… Stentrophomonas maltophila…_

Finishing her notes, Dr. Molly Hooper set the slide aside and turned the light on the scope off. "Sorry about that. You must be Sherlock—" she turned to see him at his own microscope, "…Holmes. What are you doing?"

"As a graduate chemist and pathologist, I would have thought that would have been obvious to you," muttered Sherlock without moving.

"It's just, I don't think you should be doing that," Molly told him timidly.

"It's fine," Sherlock brushed off. "I'm a graduate chemist as well."

"Those samples are from an active homicide case," Molly told him, wanting to pull him away from the evidence but her nerves freezing her in her tracks.

"Yes, the Travers case," Sherlock rattled off. "It was the brother. He poisoned the victim with thiacloprid using his own tea cup. Obvious."

Molly's brow furrowed as she hurried to her findings on the Travers case evidence, flipping through the pages in the file. "That's…that explains the nicotine-like effects in his nervous system. The thiacloprid bound itself to his nicotinic acetylcholine receptors. Of course!" She looked up at him. "How did you know that?"

Sherlock fiddled with a knob on the microscope. "The presence of stentrophomonas maltophila in the bloodstream. It hydroxylated the thiacloprid, rendering it unrecognizable. Well, nearly unrecognizable. After that, it was really rather obvious."

"Wow," said Molly softly. "You're amazing."

Sherlock brought his head back slightly from the microscope, but stayed staring at the table as Molly instantly began to stutter.

"I-I didn't mean—" she began. "I meant that, _that_ was amazing. I-I didn't—"

Sherlock turned his head to look at her, looking her up and down.

"Not that you're not—" stuttered Molly, a blush appearing in her cheeks.

 _Elevated heart rate, pupils dilated._ Sherlock turned his head back to the front. _Schoolgirl crush. Wonderful._ He lowered his head back to the microscope.

"I just—" Molly took a short breath. "We should probably just do the drug test." She went to a nearby cabinet and came back. "There's a bathroom just through there." She gestured towards one side of the lab. "I'm going to need you to give me your coat and empty your pockets." He set the plastic sample cup on the table next to him.

"Not now," Sherlock muttered.

"Your appointment is at two o'clock," Molly told him timidly.

"Yes," Sherlock stated.

"Then shouldn't we get started?" suggested Molly.

"Busy," stated Sherlock.

Molly hesitated, wringing her hands. "Your brother said that if you…caused any trouble, to call him."

Sherlock gave a sigh and an eye roll. _Stupid muddling brother!_ "Fine." He stood from the stool, took his Belstaff and jacket off and handed over his wallet from his trouser pocket, letting Molly see that the pockets were now empty. He snatched the sample cup from the counter and strode towards the small bathroom as Molly watched him go. "Don't touch my samples."

Just as he closed the door, he barely heard Molly utter the words, " _Your_ samples?"

* * *

 **5:24 PM**

A knock sounded at the door of Sherlock's bedsit, and he quickly opened it.

"Lestrade, excellent!" he exclaimed, rushing over to grab his Belstaff and put it on. "Tell me you have a worthy case. I haven't had anything intellectually stimulating for two hours now."

"Oh, I think you'll like this one," said Lestrade, stepping aside into the hall in preparation for Sherlock's usual frenzied flight out the door

Coat in place, Sherlock yanked his scarf from the hook on the wall and rushed out of the flat, pulling the door shut with a bang and practically flying down the stairs.

Lestrade hurried after him. "Karly Summers, twenty-four. Found dead in her flat. All windows and doors locked from the inside."

Sherlock came to a halt on the stairs and abruptly turned back to him with an annoyed tone. "Then the killer was obviously someone with a key to the place."

"Her bookshelf had been pushed over against the door," Lestrade told him.

Sherlock's eyes lit up again. "Well, why didn't you say so?" He immediately turned and continued his exodus down the stairs. "Did Dr. Watson ever come in to run fingerprints?"

"No," said Lestrade as he followed the consulting detective. "Not a single person came in to run fingerprints, nor have I met any Dr. Watson."

Thinking back to the letter that Dr. Watson had left about running Sherlock's fingerprints at Scotland Yard—which, no doubt he would have done immediately after writing the letter—Sherlock smirked in delight at the mystery deepening.

* * *

 **13 July 2009**

 **1:43 AM**

Sherlock stood in front of the only small window in his bedsit, swaying slightly as he played his Stradivarius violin. It always helped him to think, which he obviously needed. If it wasn't for the mystery that was Dr. Watson, he would have had this case solved by now. It was a simple case—he knew it was—but his mind kept drifting back to the army doctor. How was he doing this? After the second letter, Sherlock had had his homeless network stake out Baker Street, and not a single person had come or gone apart from Mrs. Hudson. And yet, a letter had appeared just as always.

How was Dr. Watson getting letters into the Baker Street flat?

How was he writing letters in London when he is currently in Afghanistan?

How does he know so much about Sherlock when they had never met?

How can he write a blog if it doesn't exist?

How?

 **How?**

 **HOW?**

"Shut up!" Sherlock yelled as the bow gave a discordant screech on the strings. He closed his eyes and gave a deep breath. _Focus._ He brought the bow back to the strings and continued.

The woman had been found strangled in her kitchen. She had most definitely been murdered—the clues were all there—but if the doors and windows had all been locked, then how did the bookshelf end up barricaded against the door? If the killer had locked the door with a key after he left, then how would a dead woman have pushed the shelf over? Sherlock had tested the shelf himself; it had a sturdy build and wouldn't have simply fallen over. Sherlock had had to give it a good push.

There had been no evidence that anyone or anything had been in her flat after she had died. She didn't even have a pet.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open as he froze. _Pet! Of course!_

Sherlock gently tossed the violin and bow into his armchair, grabbed his coat and hurried out of the bedsit. Hailing a cab, he hurried over to the crime scene and went inside, ignoring the yellow police tape hung on the door.

Sherlock moved over to the linen cupboard in the hall on the way to the bedroom, yanking the door open and examining a panel in the bottom of the door. Sure enough, carefully disguised in the dark woodwork was a hinge for a cat door. And at the very back of the big close was a hidden litter box.

 _She must keep the food and water bowls in a kitchen cupboard while not in use._ _ **That's**_ _why they weren't there! Stupid!_

Sherlock spotted something in the other corner of the closet and moved into the space to take a closer look. The edge of the carpet that sat at the foot of the wall was frayed, strings of plastic branching up from the fibers. Smirking, Sherlock reached forward and pulled the corner of the carpet up. There was a small hole that the cat had worn at over time to fit through. The cat had escaped into the building shortly after Karly Summers' death to go in search of food.

Sherlock stood and hurried to the kitchen as he whipped his phone out.

 **She had a cat.**

 **Need access to Bart's.**

 **SH**

He stuffed his phone back into his pocket as he searched the kitchen cupboards for the second time that day, this time looking for something very specific: cat food. But, just like earlier, he didn't find anything. He went for the fridge next and found cans of tuna. He had assumed they were for her, but clearly, they were meant for the cat.

Sherlock pulled a can out, found a can opener and opened it, pouring some tuna onto a small plate. He then went over to the closet, tapping on the plate to alert the cat. It took a minute or two of sporadic plate tapping, but eventually, a white-haired Persian cat squeezed through the hole in the floor and moved over to Sherlock's feet. Sherlock set the plate on the floor, and the cat immediately began eating the tuna.

Sherlock let him finish before scooping him up to take a look at his paws, pleased to find he still had his claws. He smirked and got to his feet, pulling out his phone as the cat growled lowly in his arm. He had received a text two minutes ago.

 **I was asleep, Sherlock.**

 **GL**

 **And now, you aren't.**

 **Get me access to Bart's.**

 **SH**

Knowing Lestrade would call the pathologist's office just to shut him up and go back to bed, Sherlock put his phone away and headed out of the flat.

* * *

 **9:01 AM**

 _A success!_ Sherlock thought, though a little annoyed with himself as he headed back through the London streets.

This case had been little more than a five, and yet, it had taken him twelve whole hours to solve it. It if hadn't been for his mind wandering to Dr. Watson over and over again, he would have had this solved yesterday evening. He _had_ to put this mystery behind him!

Sherlock made his way towards Baker Street, heading straight up the stairs after he had greeted Mrs. Hudson.

"What are you always doing up there?" Mrs. Hudson called up to him. "I better not hear any complaints from my current tenant, young man."

Sherlock stepped into 221B, heading straight for the fireplace. Smiling when he saw that a new letter had appeared, he yanked the knife from the mantel and opened it, setting the knife down.

* * *

 **13 July 2011**

 **9:12 AM**

"Lestrade…"

"What?"

"The letter's gone," John told him as he stared at the mantel, the penknife lying on its side and the letter nowhere in sight.

Lestrade stepped up next to him, staring at the empty mantel. "Gone? You sure it didn't fall?" He looked around at their feet.

"No, no, I just saw it," John insisted. "It was literally just stabbed into the mantel."

"Then how is it—" began Lestrade, looking around the room.

"I don't know!" exclaimed John, also searching.

* * *

 **13 July 2009**

 **9:12 AM**

" _Dear Sherlock (if it really is you),_

 _I don't know what to believe anymore. Is this really you? Or have I been writing your letters unknowingly?_

 _In response to your offer, God, yes, I would love to solve crimes. I miss our cases more than I thought I would._

 _Everything else in your letter makes sense if you're writing from the year 2009, but that's impossible. You're living two years in the past? How can that be? But if you are, that explains everything—how you don't remember me, why my record and Mike say that I'm still in Afghanistan, why my blog doesn't exist, how you're talking to me in the first place. But, our letters going back and forth through a time portal—that's insane. Unless…_

 _Look, if you're here, find some way to let me know._

 _God, I hope I'm not going crazy._

 _John Watson_

 _P.S. You're welcome, about your brother. He is pompous. Guess it runs in the family."_

Sherlock couldn't help but let out a chuckle at that sentence. This John Watson seemed to know him almost as well as Mycroft.

" _Speaking of, is there something you could tell me that Mycroft knows about that you would never tell anyone, not even your best friend? It would help me believe it's you."_

Sherlock stared at that for a moment, knowing just the thing to tell him. The problem was, it was such a touchy subject with harsh memories that he was reluctant to share it. But it was something he discussed only with Mycroft—if ever. And if it helped prove to Dr. Watson that he was himself, he supposed it was worth it.

Sherlock pulled the notepad he always carried in his coat now and began writing.

* * *

 **13 July 2011**

 **9:20 AM**

"Where could it have gone?" asked Lestrade.

"Exactly!" said John, running one of his hands through his hair in frustration. "It couldn't have—" He sighed. "Unless it _did_ vanish into thin air."

"Or…" began Lestrade with a reluctant grimace in John's direction, "you took it while I wasn't looking."

John searched his pockets, immensely relieved when he found nothing.

"Or…it…disappeared into thin air…" muttered Lestrade in an awed voice.

John looked up at him with a frown, and Lestrade merely nodded at the mantelpiece he was staring at with slack-jawed shock. John turned and saw that a new piece of paper—the same kind Sherlock's letters had been written on—was stabbed into the mantel.

"What happened?" asked John, unable to take his eyes off of the paper.

"It just…appeared," said Lestrade. "One second, the knife was lying there, and the next, it was stabbed into the wood with the paper there. It was like I blinked, and it was different. I swear it."

Hardly daring to breathe, John reached forward and pulled the knife from the wood. It felt solid enough. He turned and held it out to Lestrade.

Lestrade took the blade in his hand. "Well, at least it's not you."

John huffed out a laugh. "Yeah…" He turned back and picked up the letter, opening it and moving over to Lestrade so they could both read it.

" _Dr. Watson,_

 _What do you mean I'm writing form the year 2009? Aren't we all? Unless, of course, you really are in the year 2011. It would explain a lot of inconsistencies about you. But it is scientifically impossible. But unless this is all an elaborate prank (Mycroft, if this is you, don't you interfere enough?), either an invisible person is leaving these letters and writing nonsense in them—as my homeless network has not seen a single person other than myself and Mrs. Hudson enter Baker Street—or there is some kind of dimensional portal or vortex inside 221B. An invisible person is, of course, ludicrous and impossible, and when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains—however improbable—must be the truth. Perhaps a time vortex_ _ **has**_ _appeared here. After all, humanity thought space travel and electricity were impossible at one point. Maybe this is just a form of science that has yet to be explored. Fascinating…_

 _Several things you've mentioned not only suggest a falling out between the two of us but also an impossibility of the fact that I am writing these letters. Either I am dead in 2011 or otherwise incapacitated; perhaps in a coma or jail? I favor the former. Only an idiot would ever believe I would commit a crime."_

John laughed out loud. _If only Sherlock knew how ironic that statement was._

" _I can assure you that you are not crazy, because if you are, then I am as well. As for your request for information, how can I know what I will have told you and what I won't have? However, there is one thing that I would never tell anyone. Mycroft and my parents are the only individuals who know about this. And in return, I hope you will share something that no one but us would know._

 _When I was young, I had an Irish setter named Redbeard. He had to be put down. It was a very hard time for me._

 _Sherlock Holmes"_

John looked up at Lestrade, stunned by the revelation and the abrupt end to the letter. "He had a dog?"

* * *

 **13 July 2009**

 **9:21 AM**

Sherlock laid his folded letter on the mantel and stabbed the penknife into it. He slowly took his hand off of the handle to find it shaking.

 _Redbeard…_

Closing his eyes, Sherlock clenched his jaw and fist to steady himself. Just as he had feared, that one little paragraph had brought the memories back. Hopefully, it was worth it. Hopefully, this would prove it was him. But perhaps Dr. Watson would need something more; something to show this time portal was really happening.

Sherlock moved toward the staircase outside the door. If they indeed did live here together in the future, then the upstairs bedroom would be used. He headed up the stairs and into the room, which was currently completely empty. Taking one look around it and smirking, he headed back down the stairs to amend his letter. Oddly enough, though, both the letter and knife had disappeared.

* * *

 **13 July 2011**

 **9:23 AM**

Lestrade shrugged. "He never told me."

John stared at the letter another moment before pulling out his phone to send a text to Mycroft.

 **Who is Redbeard?**

 **John**

Not give seconds went by before the phone rang, the Caller ID reading "Mycroft Holmes."

John looked up at Lestrade. "He never calls if he can text." He answered the phone and put it on speaker. "Mycroft."

"How do you know that name?" came Mycroft's voice through the line, sounding sharp and—could it be?—unnerved.

Thinking fast, John replied, "Found it in some of Sherlock's notes. It struck me as odd since I couldn't remember a case involving that name."

Mycroft released a sigh, sounding relieved. "It was the name of the family dog when we were young."

John shared an amazed and triumphant smile with Lestrade. "A dog? Really? Wouldn't peg Sherlock as the pet type."

"He isn't," said Mycroft before muttering in what sounded like a dejected voice, "not anymore."

"What happened?" asked John, tense with anticipation.

"Redbeard became sick for a long time," Mycroft explained. "Eventually, Mother and Father had to put him down. Sherlock was never the same again."

"Sherlock was really attached to him, was he?" asked John.

"He was my brother's best friend," said Mycroft softly.

John waited a moment before speaking. "Thanks for telling me, Mycroft."

"My pleasure," Mycroft responded in a tone that suggested otherwise before ending the call.

John stared at the phone for a long moment before looking up at Lestrade with a smile. "It really is him…"

* * *

 **13 July 2009**

 **9:25 AM**

It was gone. The letter had vanished into thin air. He had not even heard anything, so the knife couldn't have fallen and no one could have come up and taken it. Could it be that this time portal was real? He had not even really believed it completely.

As he watched, a piece of paper with the penknife stuck through it into the wood appeared suddenly—quick as a blink—on the mantel.

Smiling widely in fascinated intrigue, Sherlock immediately yanked the knife up and retrieved the letter.

" _My God, I can't believe this. It really is you. Mycroft confirmed your story about Redbeard. Sorry you had to go through that, by the way, but I understand why you'd want to keep that to yourself._

 _I don't know what things you wouldn't inadvertently tell people, so I'll name a few._

 _Your violin was actually a gift from your brother when you were five._

 _Your first case was Carl Powers when you were eight._

 _Mycroft once told me you wanted to be a pirate when you were little._

 _I hope one of those helps._

 _John_

 _P.S. If you're still in the flat, so am I."_

Sherlock frowned at the statement about being a pirate. He couldn't remember ever wanting any such thing. The other two facts were true, and they were only things his family knew.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and texted his brother.

 **Did I ever want to be a pirate when I was younger?**

 **SH**

Five seconds went by before a text came back.

 **Why are you asking?**

 **M**

 **Curious.**

 **SH**

 **And what has prompted this curiosity?**

 **M**

 **What does it matter?**

 **Just answer the question.**

 **SH**

 **Yes, you did.**

 **Briefly.**

 **M**

Frowning, Sherlock put his phone back in his coat. Why couldn't he remember wanting to be a pirate? But as he thought about it, a vague image of Redbeard wearing a bandana appeared in his mind, accompanied by the memory of a little wooden play sword.

 _Hmm. Must have been exceptionally young._

Sherlock raised the letter once again. _Still in the flat…_

He pulled his notepad out once more.

* * *

 **13 July 2011**

 **9:25 AM**

John stabbed the letter into the mantel, watching it. "Do you think he's still here?"

The letter and knife suddenly vanished.

John's jaw dropped. "Oh, my…" He looked at Lestrade. "He's here…right now…" He shrugged. "Well, two years ago."

Lestrade shook his head. "My head hurts."

John looked back at the mantel, waiting for the letter to appear. One minute later, there it was. John opened it to see a short note written there.

" _I'm here as well. All three of your facts were correct, including one even I didn't know. This vanishing act goes to show our separate timelines are coinciding. It is 13 July 2009, 9:26 a.m. You?"_

* * *

 **13 July 2009**

Sherlock yanked the knife from the mantel, opening the letter.

" _13 July 2011, now 9:27 a.m. This is incredible."_

* * *

 **13 July 2011**

" _Indeed, it is. I can think of several experiments I would like to do—"_

"Of course he does," John laughed.

"— _one of which I would like to do now. Interested?"_

John smiled and grabbed his pen.

* * *

 **2009**

" _What did you have in mind?"_

Sherlock smirked. This John Watson was going to become a very dear friend indeed.

* * *

 **2011**

John unfolded the letter.

" _Go to the second-floor bedroom. On the baseboard behind the door, I will carve something at 9:35. Tell me what happens and what I have written."_

John looked at Lestrade, and they both headed for the stairs and into John's old room. Lestrade swung the door almost closed, and they looked down at the baseboard at the bottom of the wall.

John looked at his watch. "Two minutes."

When 9:35 came, John squatted down and watched grooves start to form in the wood. Getting an idea, John whipped his phone out and began recording a video of the carving. Slowly, words and numbers began forming.

* * *

 **2009**

Sherlock blew away the wood shavings and splinters, surveying his handiwork.

WILLIAM H. BORN 6 JAN 1981

Sherlock got to his feet and headed back down the stairs. He strode over to the fireplace and waited. And waited. And waited.

"For God's sake, how long does it take to write four words?" Sherlock grumbled.

Ten minutes later, and the knife finally reappeared, but a piece of paper was not the only thing that accompanied it. Pinned by the metal loop used for a keychain, a USB flash drive was sitting atop the paper.

Intrigued, Sherlock removed the knife and opened the letter.

" _Who's William?_

 _I thought you might like what's on this memory stick."_

Sherlock immediately headed down to Mrs. Hudson's flat, borrowing her old laptop. Returning to the flat, Sherlock plugged the stick into the USB slot. There was one media file on it, and Sherlock pulled it up. It was a video of lines being carved into a baseboard. He watched in amazement as the words he had carved upstairs formed on the wood. They even stuttered and paused where he had run into a nail.

"Incredible…" Sherlock said in a breathy, amazed voice.

* * *

 **2011**

John watched as, finally, the knife reappeared with a letter and the USB drive. He retrieved the letter.

" _Amazing. Watching a video from the future of myself changing the past—my present._

 _I am William. My legal name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I've gone by Sherlock since as long as I can remember."_

* * *

 **2009**

" _Really? And all that grief you gave me about me not telling you my middle name._

 _It's so strange. I can remember what it was like for that baseboard to be blank, but now, I also have memories of seeing it with those words carved in it. All this time I never knew when your birthday was, and it was right in front of me."_

* * *

 **2011**

" _I'm pleased to know that I've successfully kept my birthday from you, until now. I'm not very keen on birthdays. Someone always tries to surprise me—_ _ **me**_ _, of all people. It's painful watching them think they've fooled me._

 _I envy you. To be able to experience two different timelines at the same time. What is that like?"_

* * *

 **2009**

" _It's weird. It's almost like when a movie is made from a book, and there's little things they change in the story. It's the same, yet it's not."_

* * *

 **2011**

" _So, we become flatmates in 2010. When do we meet?"_

John got out his pen and started to write, but then stopped. "Wait, I…I can't tell him, can I? What if it changes things? What if—" He froze, staring off at the wall.

Lestrade glanced at the wall and then back at John. "What?"

"I can save him," said John softly.

"What, now?" asked Lestrade.

John looked at him. "I can save him! He's living two years in the past! If I just warn him…"

"But you said yourself you might change things," said Lestrade. "If you're not careful—"

"Well, I'll have to wait until he and Mycroft are planning to fake his death," said John. "As long as we don't tell him stuff before it happens, it should work." He looked down at Sherlock's letter, a smile that hadn't seen the light of day in a month appearing on his face. "It'll take two years, but…we're going to get him back."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Seven

 **Sorry if this is confusing. Basically, it's just a record of the letters that they write back and forth instead of a narrative.**

* * *

 **13 July 2009**

Sherlock unfolded the letter that had appeared.

" _I shouldn't tell you. In fact, there's not much I_ _ **can**_ _tell you. It might change things; maybe we end up not meeting at all, or someone who isn't supposed to die will suddenly vanish. Just trust me when I say that we don't want anything to change. All I can say is that it won't be long._

 _Sorry. I know how you hate unanswered questions."_

Sherlock let out a frustrated groan as he crumpled the paper slightly in his fist. Dr. Watson was right—he loathed unsolved mysteries—but he supposed it was best to not be told something that could change the future. One thing he was especially pleased about was the fact that Watson seemed adamant about making sure the two of them became friends. He had never known someone to fight for him like this. What had he done to engender this army doctor's friendship?

Sherlock picked his pen up and began writing again.

* * *

 **13 July 2011**

John unfolded the letter and read out loud.

" _You're right; I do hate abandoning a mystery, but for once, I am going to trust someone other than myself. Feel free to tell me to back off if you can't tell me something._

 _I just received a text from Lestrade about a triple homicide. DNA under the victims' nails from a man who died five years ago! Excellent!_

 _Till next time,_

 _Sherlock"_

John smiled as Lestrade spoke.

"Oh, I remember that case," he said, a reminiscent look on his face. "He had a blast."

"I never heard about that one," muttered John, still staring at the letter. He folded the paper and looked up at his friend. "I'll have to get him to tell me about it." He grabbed the rest of the letters and pocketed them. "But first…" He pulled his mobile out of his other pocket, dialing a number and waiting for the other line to pick up. "Mycroft? Hey, I got a favor to ask you. Can you get me out of the lease at my new flat? I'm moving back into Baker Street."

* * *

" _15 July 2009_

 _Dr. Watson_

 _What a fantastic case! A nine, at least! The victims were killed with a rope from the dead man's garage. He had gotten a bad enough rope-burn to leave quite a bit of skin behind. When the victims were strangled, they pulled at the rope, getting the skin cells under their fingernails. The connection between the two cases was enough to find the murderer._

 _This makes it a tad difficult getting to write anything but only read what you decide is safe. But I suppose I only have to wait at the least six months. I don't suppose you can tell me why you left the RAMC? You seem to crave that kind of atmosphere._

 _Sherlock Holmes"_

* * *

" _17/7/11_

 _And deprive you the joy of deducing my army history when we meet? Never!_

 _I can only imagine how frustrating it must be to not get much feedback. But it won't be long. The events leading up to us meeting will start soon._

 _I also wanted to say that I have moved back into 221B. So, whenever we catch up to each other, come find me. (Not that you couldn't have found me without it. I could leave behind a pen and a sock, and you'd manage to track me down within a day.)_

 _Thanks for sharing your case. I only got to hear about your old cases every once in a while. Keep it up._

 _John"_

* * *

" _26 July 2009_

 _Dr. Watson,_

 _Sorry for the delay. Been in America the past week. Caught wind of a case I just couldn't ignore. Mainly my big brother. He claimed that as a condition of my parole, I had agreed to help if ever he called on me. I remember no such promise, but if I wanted him to not lock me up again, I really had no choice. I won't bore you with the details._

 _Sherlock"_

* * *

" _26/7/11_

 _Oh, no problem. Figured you got wrapped up in a case._

 _So, what's this "parole"? I know you never went to jail. Anything to do with your last drug relapse? He really put you on his own parole?"_

* * *

" _I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you know about my drug days. You are a doctor, after all. I suppose Mycroft was gracious enough to let it slip._

 _What he's doing is giving me six months to prove I will not relapse. Until then, he's in control of my finances."_

* * *

" _Ooh, that's harsh. And, no, Mycroft did not let it slip. You can thank Lestrade for that."_

* * *

" _Wanted to warn you about me?"_

* * *

" _No, that job fell to_

 _Sorry. I almost said something you might not know yet. You're right; this is frustrating. Let's just say it came up._

 _Sorry, but I have to get to work. I'll talk to you later._

 _John"_

* * *

" _28/7/11_

 _So, since you can't ask me anything, I figured it would be a good time to get to know you better. You're surprisingly vague about your past._

 _Where did you grow up?"_

* * *

" _31 July 2009_

 _I hardly remember. What's the point? Waste of brain space. Somewhere in northern England. The countryside, I believe."_

* * *

" _1/8/11_

 _Did you have any family close by?"_

* * *

" _2 August 2009_

 _None. My mother's an only child, and Father was from Yeovil. My mother's parents passed away before I was born."_

* * *

" _4/8/11_

 _Were you always so distant and logical? Or did you act like an actual child when you were young?"_

* * *

" _8 August 2009_

' _Normal' childhood behavior is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models. I have been this way since as long as I can remember."_

* * *

" _13 August 2009_

 _Dr. Watson? Did you get my last letter?"_

* * *

" _18 August 2009_

 _John, is everything all right?"_

* * *

" _21 August 2009_

 _John, if you don't respond, I will find a way to call the police to your location in the future."_

* * *

 **22 August 2011**

John stepped into 221B, placing his bags on the sofa. Hurrying over to the fireplace, his eyes widened at the sight of several letters stabbed into the mantel. He pulled the knife out and opened the bottom one first, reading through them in order.

"Oh, damn it," muttered John, grabbing up a pen and paper.

" _22 August 2011_

 _Sorry. I got a call on the 7_ _th_ _that my parents had been in a bad wreck while on vacation in Barcelona. By the time I remembered I hadn't left you a note, I was already on the plane. They're fine, by the way. Mum's got a broken arm and a bad laceration over her sternum, and Dad's got a gash in his leg where the gear shift broke free and stabbed him, but thankfully, they're going to be fine._

 _I got back to find out that Baker Street was being fumigated. Apparently, you left an experiment in the back of a kitchen cupboard a while back. I've been staying at Greg's (Lestrade) for the last four days._

 _Didn't mean to worry you (although, you do love to return the favor)._

 _John"_

John folded the letter and secured it in place, glancing down at Sherlock's letter. He smiled as he realized that Sherlock had addressed him as "John" instead of "Dr. Watson" for the first time.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Eight

 **Hey, for the purposes of making their first meeting better (in my opinion, because they're meeting in the actual episode was written so well), there is no photo on John's blog. I don't know how many of you have visited that site, but there's a picture of John at the top of the blog. So, in this story, there's no photo.**

* * *

John and Sherlock spent the next month and a half sending their letters back and forth, Sherlock telling John about every one of his cases—well, the ones he viewed as important enough—and John sharing what he could—which, admittedly was not much. Sherlock found himself developing a fondness for the doctor and could not wait for their first case together.

John, meanwhile, was counting down the days to the first serial suicide victim of the cabbie Jefferson Hope. As they entered October, John knew that he had been shot and discharged, but hoped Sherlock would not go looking for him. He was banking on Sherlock's growing trust and companionship in him to keep him away.

* * *

13 October 2011

John smiled as he sat down to write his letter. It was finally here: the day that started everything. Yesterday in 2009, Sir Jeffrey Patterson had been killed. John had never known if Sherlock had gotten onto his case's trail from the very beginning or if he had needed two to begin getting suspicious, but he was about to find out.

" _13/10/11_

 _Sherlock,_

 _Well, I hope your day went better than mine. My lease application didn't go through. They decided to go with the insurance company instead of a doctor's office. On top of that, I had a patient that came into the clinic who I'm pretty sure has HIV—waiting on the tests—and he coughed blood in my face. Now, I have to do four weeks of treatment to make sure I don't get it._

 _John"_

The next day, he got his response.

" _14 October 2009_

 _John,_

 _I'm afraid my day was just as dull as yours. Not a single interesting case._

 _Although, I did manage to create an interesting reaction with…"_

The letter went on to describe in detail a new experiment he was working on at Bart's. But it did not even hint at a new case, which meant that Sherlock had not viewed anything suspicious in a news report about an apparent suicide. But no matter. He would definitely be interested after the second.

* * *

" _27 November 2009_

 _John,_

 _Well, looks like I might have a worthy case at last. There have now been two suicides in the last two months. Both of them show clear signs of having swallowed the poison themselves, but other than that, there appears to be no connection whatsoever. Both were found in locations they had no connection to, and both had shown no prior signs of suicide._

 _Hmm. Might have a serial killer on our hands…_

 _Sherlock"_

John smiled, not surprised in the least that Sherlock already suspected a serial killer. The next two months were going to be very interesting indeed.

* * *

14 December 2009

Sherlock flung the paper across the room, frustrated once again by the lack of a suicide. It was a serial killer; he knew it! So, why hadn't he struck again yet?

Sherlock flung himself from his armchair, pacing the room. He finally settled at the table by the sofa, opening his laptop. Perhaps there was something interesting on his website.

Out of habit, Sherlock typed in the web address of John's blog to check it before moving on. Not expecting the website to exist yet, he was surprised to see a webpage pop up titled "The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson." On the right-hand side of the screen, a small section labeled "About Me" simply read: "I am an experienced medical doctor recently returned from Afghanistan." Under "My Photos," there were six random scenery photos, the Colosseum being one of them. Clearly, John was not making any effort whatsoever on his blog. This was made especially evident by the single entry on the page, entered that very day.

 **14** **th** **December**

 **Nothing**

Obviously, this was some sort of mandated task given to John, most likely by a therapist of some kind.

 _Therapist… Traumatized after the war?_

Sherlock looked over the blog, knowing that this meant John was back in London now. He would have to fight hard against the urge to track him down. Despite how much John told him how good of friends they were, that might not make a very good first impression. But hopefully, this meant it wouldn't be long before they met.

The next day, there was a second blog entry, this time with a title to click on for the actual article.

 **15** **th** **December**

 **Pointless**

 **Nothing happens to me**

Sherlock stared at the blog. _Hmm. Not even bothering with punctuation. Must be incredibly bored._ He closed down his laptop and moved over to write a letter to John. _Not to worry, John. I can take care of that._

* * *

9 January 2010

Sherlock hauled the last box into 221B Baker Street as Lestrade set his down on the sofa.

"Well, that's it," said Lestrade. "Need any help unpacking?"

"No!" exclaimed Sherlock. "Everything has to go in its proper place."

"Well, then, have fun," said Lestrade, striding past him to the door.

Sherlock gazed around his new home, enjoying it immensely. It was certainly better than his bedsit of the last six months. His eyes fell on his lone armchair in front of the fireplace.

"Actually," said Sherlock, turning towards the door, "I could use help with one last thing. Need to buy an armchair."

Lestrade had stopped and looked back at him, and he now frowned at the leather armchair. "You want two?"

Sherlock squinted at him. "Problem?"

Lestrade shook his head. "No, no." He turned back to the door. "I know a good place."

One hour later, and Sherlock's black leather armchair was now joined by a red plaid one, which he situated across from his. For some reason, it had just spoken to him as one that John would find comfortable.

* * *

Sherlock kept a close watch on John's blog entries, eager for a clue as to when he would finally meet him (not that a person could really tell something like that from the man's blog entries, but Sherlock was not one to give up).

 **20** **th** **January**

 **How?**

 **How do I delete this?**

* * *

 **21** **st** **January**

 **Happy now?**

 **Look Ella. I'm writing my blog.**

* * *

 **25** **th** **January**

 **Drinks**

 **Met up with some of the rugby lads from Blackheath last night. They haven't changed. Still downing pints like they're in the twenties. Still all taking the mick out of each other. None of them mentioned my leg.**

Sherlock frowned at that blog entry. _Leg? Was he shot in the leg? Lost it in an explosion? That would explain leaving the army._

* * *

28 January 2010

Sherlock sat in his flat, watching the live police press conference. Lestrade sat at the table, looking uncomfortable, while Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan addressed the gathered press reporters. Sherlock pulled out his phone, drafting a message to the mass texting software he'd set up in Scotland Yard.

"The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London," said Donovan. "Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now."

"Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?" asked a reporter.

"Well, they all took the same poison; um, they were all found in places they had no reason to be; none of them had shown any prior indication of ..."

"But you can't have serial suicides," said a reporter.

"Well, apparently you can," said Lestrade.

"These three people: there's nothing that links them?" asked a reporter.

"There's no link been found yet, but we're looking for it," said Lestrade.

Sherlock shook his head and typed on his phone.

 **Wrong!**

"There has to be one," said Lestrade as he sent the text off.

Everybody's mobile phones on the screen trilled a text alert simultaneously. Donovan and Lestrade glanced at their own phones.

"If you've all got texts, please ignore them," said Donovan.

"Just says, 'Wrong,'" said the reporter.

Sherlock smirked.

"Yeah, well, just ignore that," said Donovan. "Okay, if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring this session to an end."

"But if they're suicides, what are you investigating?" asked a reporter.

"As I say, these…these suicides are clearly linked," said Lestrade.

Sherlock shook his head, getting another text ready.

"Um, it's an...it's an unusual situation," Lestrade went on. "We've got our best people investigating..."

Everybody's mobiles trilled another text alert.

"Says, 'Wrong' again," said a reporter.

Lestrade looked despairingly at Sally. Sherlock was stifling a laugh.

"One more question," said Donovan.

"Is there any chance that these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?" asked a reporter.

"I...I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides," said Lestrade. "We know the difference."

 _Not likely,_ thought Sherlock.

"The, um, the poison was clearly self-administered," said Lestrade.

"Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?" asked a reporter.

"Well, don't commit suicide," said Lestrade.

Sherlock actually laughed at that.

Lestrade grimaced and looked at the reporters again. "Obviously, this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be."

Sherlock sent off another text and then typed out a private one to Lestrade.

 **You know where to find me.**

 **SH**

Sherlock watched as Lestrade picked up his phone and all but rolled his eyes. Looking exasperated, he put the phone into his pocket and looked at the reporters as he stood up.

"Thank you," said Lestrade.

Please with his success, Sherlock shut the television off and moved over to his laptop, checking John's blog.

 **28th January**

 **Serial suicides**

 **There's been another of those 'serial suicides'. It's weird. There doesn't seem to be any connection between the deceased. It doesn't make sense.**

 **Met up with Bill Murray. Not the film star. He was the nurse who saved my life when I was shot. He's got married.**

 **Stuff's happening to other people.**

 _Not to worry, John,_ Sherlock thought as he shut down his laptop. _That will soon change._

He just didn't know how soon.

* * *

29 January 2010

Sherlock hurried through the lab doors, moving over to his usual microscope. "Molly!"

"It's her morning off, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up to see Dr. Mike Stamford at one of the tables, his lab coat on. "Oh. I told her I needed her assistance today."

"Well, she stayed behind last night to cover someone's shift, so I sent her home to get some sleep," Mike explained. "The two of us switched shifts. She'll be in in a few hours."

"Hours?" exclaimed Sherlock. "But I need her now."

"You know, there are other people that can help you out," Mike told him, stepping over across the bench from him.

"Like who?" grunted Sherlock, taking his coat and scarf off.

"Molly's not the only competent doctor here, you know," Mike shot at him.

"No, but she is the only intelligent one," muttered Sherlock, situating himself at the microscope.

"Thanks for that," Mike muttered right back.

"For what?" asked Sherlock, looking up in question.

Mike shook his head. "Yet again, I'm amazed by your inability to get along with others."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment and looked back at his microscope. _Everyone except John. I shudder to think what I would do if I didn't know he was going to move in soon._

"What?" said Mike.

Sherlock froze for a second. _Must have said some of that out loud._ "Just said that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for."

"Oh, you're looking for a flatmate?" asked Mike.

"In a manner of speaking," Sherlock answered.

"Hmm," pondered Mike. "I'll keep an eye out for you, shall I?"

Sherlock gave a noncommittal shrug. "If you wish."

His phone went off, and he checked it to find a text message from Lestrade about a suspected homicide.

"Excellent!" exclaimed Sherlock.

"Case?" asked Mike.

"Possibly," said Sherlock. "Tell Molly I'll be back." He grabbed his coat and scarf and hurried out the door.

* * *

Sherlock fiddled away with a pipette as the chemical he had just added fizzled away at the paint scrapes he had taken at the crime scene.

 _Aluminum…aluminum…_ he thought, waiting for a reaction.

The liquid on the slide turned blue.

 _Yes!_ Sherlock thought.

The green paint scrapes under the second-floor window were from an aluminum ladder. Of course!

There was a knock, and the door of the lab opened, and Sherlock lanced up as he replaced the pipette, registering Dr. Mike Stamford entering the room with a man with sandy-blonde hair. His eyes moved over the man.

 _Military haircut and posture. Bad limp._

He went immediately back to the Petri dish, absorbed in the success of the case.

"Well, bit different from my day," said the soldier.

 _Trained at Bart's. Army doctor, then._

Sherlock felt quickly in his pockets and pulled out his phone, dismayed to find that he had no signal. _Useless hospital!_

"You've no idea!" Mike responded to the army doctor with a chuckle.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" Sherlock spoke up as he sat back at the bench. "There's no signal on mine."

"And what's wrong with the landline?" asked Mike.

"I prefer to text," said Sherlock.

"Sorry," Mike replied. "It's in my coat."

"Er, here," said the army doctor. "Use mine."

Sherlock looked over to see the army doctor offering his mobile phone.

 _Army doctor!_ Sherlock's brain finally screamed at him. _It couldn't be John, could it?_

" _No, it couldn't,_ he answered himself. _Everything I've deduced through those letters says John does not have a limp. Unless…_

"Oh," said Sherlock. "Thank you."

He strode over towards the man, noticing as he did that he stood quite centered, not bothered by the leg at all. If it was really hurting him, he would be leaning more on the cane.

Sherlock's eyes moved from his tanned face down to the hand that held the phone out to him. It was also tanned, but where the wrist began to emerge from his coat, a tan line marked it. _He's been abroad._

Sherlock looked back up at the man's face. _Army doctor recently invalided home from the Middle East. So, that's why he left the army._

"It's an old friend of mine," Mike chimed in just in time. "John Watson."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Nine

 **Sorry for the delay. I've been sick this week.**

* * *

 **29 January 2010**

Sherlock stared at John for just another moment before coming to himself and taking the phone, turning partially away from him as he faintly registered the inscription on the back of the phone and flipping the keypad open. _What would he ask if he had never talked to John through those letters?_ And suddenly, something John had said in some of the earliest letters came back to him.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked. He continued typing in the silence.

 **If brother has green ladder-**

"Sorry?" said John.

Sherlock briefly raised his eyes to John's. "Which was it: Afghanistan or Iraq?" He went back to the text he was typing.

 **-arrest brother.**

 **SH**

"Afghanistan," John answered. "Sorry, how did you know…?"

As Sherlock sent off his text, the lab door opened, and Sherlock looked up to see Molly entering with a mug of coffee in her hand. "Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you." He handed John his phone back without looking at him. He took the mug from Molly, frowning as his eyes found her pale lips. "What happened to the lipstick?"

Molly smiled awkwardly at him. "It wasn't working for me."

"Really?" said Sherlock, turning away. "I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too…small now." He took a sip of the coffee as Molly made her exit. Grimacing at the taste, he jumped right in. "How do you feel about the violin?" He set the mug down and set his Petri dish aside, opening a web page on the laptop there.

"I'm sorry, what?" asked John.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking," Sherlock told him, typing on the laptop as he spoke. "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end." He looked around at John. "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He gave an impossibly fake smile before looking back at his experiment. _Time to test this so-called friendship John is always going on about. Would they still become such close friends if Sherlock threw all his worst qualities at him from the start?_

"Oh, you…you told him about me?" John asked Mike.

"Not a word," said Mike.

John turned to Sherlock again. "Then who said anything about flatmates?"

Sherlock turned towards the stool next to him to gather his greatcoat. "I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for." He pulled on his coat, reaching for his scarf. "Now, here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan." He looped his scarf around his neck as he looked back at John. "Wasn't that difficult a leap."

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" asked John.

Sherlock picked up his mobile and checked it. "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." He walked towards John. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He strode past John towards the door.

"Is that it?" John spoke up.

Intrigued by John's response, Sherlock turned back and strolled closer to John again. "Is that what?"

"We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?" said John.

"Problem?" asked Sherlock. _Please say no._

John gave an almost disbelieving smile as he glanced at Mike and back at Sherlock. "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."

Sherlock paused as he leveled his gaze at the army doctor. _Here it goes._ "I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him—possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic—quite correctly, I'm afraid."

John glanced down at his leg momentarily.

"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" said Sherlock smugly, moving toward the door. He was almost through it when he stopped. _Wait! You haven't met yet, remember?_ Sherlock poked his head back in. "The name's Sherlock Holes, and the address is 221B Baker Street."

* * *

 **29 January 2012**

" _So, I met the most fascinating person today."_

John smiled as he pulled a pad of paper out. _"Really? He sounds interesting."_ He put the note on the mantel with the knife and waited as it disappeared and came back.

" _So, a psychosomatic limp. I can fix that."_

John laughed out loud. _"Yeah, I know. Thanks, by the way."_

" _So, did I change history?"_

John frowned. _"How would you have?"_

" _I tried showing off my personality one hundred percent to see if it scared you away. How did I do?"_

John laughed out loud. _"Terrible. I'm still here."_

" _Hmm. I'll have to try harder."_

" _Don't worry. You do."_

* * *

 **29 January 2010**

Sherlock chuckled a little at John's note before writing one himself. _"So, nothing I do is going to drive you away?"_

" _No, nothing. Your eccentricity was like a breath of fresh air after coming back to dull, ordinary London."_

" _Always the soldier."_

" _Apparently."_

" _How soon after meeting me did you start to see past my so-called cool exterior?"_

" _Go check my blog."_

Sherlock immediately stepped over to his laptop, calling up the webpage. Sure enough, there was a new entry from less than an hour ago. He clicked on it and began to read.

 **29th January**

 **A Strange Meeting**

 **I don't know how I'm meant to be writing this. I'm not a writer. Ella thought keeping a blog would help but it hasn't because nothing ever happens to me. But today, something did. Something happened.**

 **I was walking in the park and I bumped into Mike Stamford. We were sort of mates when we were students. We got coffee and I mentioned that I wanted to move. He said he knew of someone in a similar situation. So we went to Barts and he introduced us.**

 **Except, he didn't. He didn't introduce us. The man knew who I was. Somehow he knew everything about me. He knew I'd served in Afghanistan and he knew I'd been invalided. He said my wound was psychosomatic so he didn't get everything right but he even knew why I was there, despite the fact that Mike hadn't told him.**

 **I googled him when I got back to the flat and found a link to his website** **The Science of Deduction** **.**

 **It's mad. I think he might be mad. He was certainly arrogant and really quite rude and he looks about 12 and he's clearly a bit public school and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likeable. He was charming. It really was all just a bit strange.**

 **So tomorrow, we're off to look at a flat. Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes.**

 _Well, well, well. Looks like someone's already hooked._ Sherlock smiled. _This may be easier than I thought._

* * *

 **30 January 2010**

Sherlock glanced out the window of the cab as it approached Baker Street (what a relief it was to have access to his funds again), and he saw John limping up to the front door. The doctor knocked on the door as the cab came to a stop, and Sherlock got out, greeting his future flatmate as he paid the cabbie.

John turned towards him as he walked over. "Ah, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please," he corrected, shaking his hands.

"Well, this is a prime spot," said John. "Must be expensive."

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson—the landlady—she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?"

"Oh, no," said Sherlock. "I ensured it." He smiled at John, pleased at the stunned look on the doctor's face, as the front door was opened.

Mrs. Hudson opened her arms as she stepped forward. "Sherlock, hello."

Sherlock turned and walked into her arms, hugging her briefly, and then stepped back and presented John to her. "Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson."

Mrs. Hudson and John made their greetings, and Sherlock led John into the building. Sherlock trotted up the stairs to the first floor landing and then paused and waited for John to hobble upstairs. As John reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock opened the door ahead of him and walked in, revealing the living room of the flat. It felt strange inviting John into Baker Street to show him the flat when it was John who had drawn Sherlock to Baker Street in the first place.

John followed him in and looked around the room and at all the possessions and boxes scattered around it. "Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed."

"Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely." Sherlock looked around the flat happily. "So, I went straight ahead and moved in."

He had spoken right over John, and it took a second for him to register the man's words: "Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out—"

John paused, embarrassed, when he realized what Sherlock had said. "Oh… So, this is all…"

Sherlock walked across the room and made a half-hearted attempt to tidy up a little, throwing a couple of folders into a box. "Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up…" He suddenly spotted the letter he had been writing to John before he'd been called away on a case lying on the table. He scooped it up, strode over to the fireplace and picked up the penknife, continuing his comment. "…a bit." He stabbed the letter into the mantel.

John lifted his cane to point at the mantelpiece. "That's a skull."

Sherlock glanced at the skull. "Friend of mine. When I say 'friend'…"

Mrs. Hudson entered the room, picking up a cup and saucer while Sherlock took off his greatcoat and scarf. "What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

Faced towards the wall, Sherlock rolled his eyes. When would Mrs. Hudson realize that he was not gay?

"Of course we'll be needing two," John told her.

"Oh, don't worry; there's all sorts round here." Mrs. Hudson dropped her voice to a whisper. "Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones." She then walked across to the kitchen, turned back and frowned at Sherlock. "Oh, Sherlock. The mess you've made." She went into the kitchen and started tidying up.

Sherlock tidied up a few more items, only just now realizing how stupid it was not to have cleared space for John. After all, he knew very well that John would move in. Then again, when had Sherlock ever been considerate of anyone?

"I looked you up on the internet last night," said John.

Sherlock turned around to him. "Anything interesting?"

"Found your website, The Science of Deduction," said John.

Sherlock smiled proudly. "What did you think?"

John threw him a "you have got to be kidding me" type of look, and Sherlock frowned, taken aback. _I thought you thought I was brilliant._

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb," said John.

"Yes, and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone," said Sherlock.

"How?" asked John.

Sherlock smiled and turned away. _Not quite yet. This needs…timing._

Lestrade soon made his way up to the flat, inviting Sherlock to a fourth serial suicide. ( _A fourth! Oh, it's Christmas!_ ) Sherlock hurried through his goodbyes, grabbing his coat and scarf in a flurry and heading out the door. He stepped out onto the landing and stopped, his mind warring with itself.

 _Invite John! He's said it himself that he goes on your cases with you!_

 _But who knows when that will be. It might seem a bit off-putting to just walk up to him the second day I've met him and ask if he wants to go see a dead body._

Sherlock shook his head after a moment. _No, he's not ready._ He turned and started down the stairs.

"Damn my leg!"

Sherlock stopped and smirked. _Or maybe he is._ He turned and moved back up to the landing as Mrs. Hudson reached the door.

"Just this once, dear," she was saying. "I'm not your housekeeper."

"Couple of biscuits, too, if you've got 'em," he heard John say from the sitting room.

Mrs. Hudson poked her head back in. "Not your housekeeper!" She turned and stepped onto the landing. "Oh. Back already?"

"For the moments," Sherlock told her. "I seem to have left a crucial piece of the case behind."

"Well, good luck, dear," Mrs. Hudson told him, heading down the stairs.

Sherlock stepped into the sitting room doorway, looking over at John sitting in the armchair, looking at his abandoned newspaper from this morning. _At home already._

"You're a doctor," Sherlock announced himself.

John looked up at him.

"In fact, you're an army doctor," Sherlock went on.

John cleared his throat. "Yes." He leaned heavily onto his cane to push himself to his feet and faced him.

"Any good?" Sherlock asked, wanting to see if John's spirit had been crushed along with his body. His letters hadn't shown any depression, but you never could tell with some people.

"Very good," John replied without any hesitation.

Sherlock inwardly smirked. _It's always the people who are best in their field whose confidence in their ability never wavers._

He took a few slow steps towards him, seemingly considering his words. "Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths."

"Mm, yes."

"Bit of trouble, too, I bet."

"Of course, yes," John told him quietly. "Enough…for a lifetime. Far too much."

Sherlock stared at him another moment before letting the other shoe drop. "Wanna see some more?"

"Oh, God, yes," said John, the interest palpable in his voice.

Sherlock immediately turned and hurried down the stairs, unmindful of John's cane, but it made no difference; John was right behind him, unaware that he was hardly using the cane as he hurried to keep up with Sherlock on the stairs. They swept out the door—after bidding Mrs. Hudson goodbye—and hailed a cab.

Sherlock fiddled on his phone as John sat glancing every so often at him. Eventually, he put his phone away. "Okay, you've got questions."

"Yeah, where are we going?" asked John.

"Crime scene," Sherlock replied. "Next?"

John looked at him. "Who are you? What do you do?"

"What do you think?" asked Sherlock, interested to see just how smart this army doctor was.

"I'd say private detective…" answered John slowly.

"But…" prompted Sherlock, sensing John's doubt in that sentence.

"But the police don't go to private detectives."

Sherlock smiled a little, surprised at the insight. "I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job."

"What does that mean?"

"It means when the police are out of their depth—which is always—they consult me."

"The police don't consult amateurs."

Sherlock glanced over at John to see that he was very much intrigued by him. _Hmm. Well, John's letters indicated that he enjoyed my deductions._ "When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' You looked surprised."

"Yes, how did you know?"

"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart's, so army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan—Afghanistan or Iraq."

There was a pause while John absorbed that, and Sherlock wondered whether he should go on or not. Had John had enough or was he still curious?

"You said I had a therapist," John spoke up.

Given the green light, Sherlock went on. "You've got a psychosomatic limp; of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother."

"Hmm?" asked John.

Sherlock held his hand out for the phone, which John handed over. "Your phone. It's expensive—e-mail enabled, MP3 player—but you're looking for a flatshare. You wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then." He turned the phone over as he talked. "Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

"The engraving."

Sherlock turned the phone over to view the engraving on it. "Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is.

"Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently; this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then; six months on, he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it—people do; sentiment—but, no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help. That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

Sherlock smirked. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though." He brandished the phone again. "Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them." He plopped the phone back into John's hand. "There you go, you see? You were right."

"I was right," John repeated. "Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs."

Sherlock waited for John's response, his first impression, knee-jerk reaction. This is what would truly tell him what kind of person John was.

"That…" began John hesitantly.

Sherlock tensed.

"…was amazing," John finished.

Sherlock paused. Surely, he had heard wrong. No one thought he was amazing. "You really think so?"

"Of course it was," John went on. "It was extraordinary. It was…quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off'!" Sherlock replied, smiling briefly at John.

John smiled with a chuckle, and Sherlock realized that he had not really accepted that John was telling the truth about their friendship until that moment.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 10

 **Sorry this took so long. I've basically just been copying the transcript down and altering it for Sherlock's point of view and my story. It makes it a lot less interesting to write than something I come up with originally. But, no complaints, 'cause I still love it.**

 **By the way, if I haven't mentioned it, I get the transcripts from Ariane DeVere's website.**

* * *

 **30 January 2010**

Sherlock got out of the cab as John did as well, limping next to him as they walked towards the police tape strung across the road.

"Did I get anything wrong?" asked Sherlock, intrigued by how well he had done and if he had blown it by revealing more than he could possibly know if he had just met John.

"Harry and me don't get on, never have," said John. "Clara and Harry split up three months ago, and they're getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker."

Sherlock smirked at the deductions he had pulled, satisfied to finally have the missing pieces that John had never told him. "Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything."

"And Harry's short for Harriet," said John.

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. "Harry's your sister."

John continued onwards. "Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?"

"Sister!" said Sherlock furiously through gritted teeth. _John's going to gloat so much over that._

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?" asked John.

Exasperated, Sherlock started to walk again. "There's always something."

They approached the police tape where they were met by Sergeant Donovan. Sherlock suppressed the irritation he felt at seeing her. Despite his initial thoughts of hoping Donovan would turn out all right, she had apparently taken offense at their initial meeting. Their second crime scene together had started out the same as his interactions with every other officer at New Scotland Yard. But when he had finished with his deductions of the scene—and thus, solving the case—Donovan had first uttered that cursed word: "freak." Ever since, Donovan had held a grudge that had only gotten worse in these last six months. And when Anderson had been hired four months ago, he had quickly joined in, obviously wanting to get in Donovan's good books.

"Hello, freak," said Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan.

Sherlock ignored the wince in the back of his throat. "I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Why?" asked Donovan.

"I was invited," said Sherlock.

"Why?" asked Donovan.

"I think he wants me to take a look," said Sherlock sarcastically. _Of all the stupid questions…_

"Well, you know what _I_ think, don't you?" said Donovan.

Sherlock lifted the tape and ducked underneath it. "Always, Sally." He breathed in through his nose, picking up a hint of bergamot, ginger and cumin. _Molton Brown Black Pepper deodorant._ "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

"I don't…" Donovan looked at John. "Er, who's this?"

"Colleague of mine, Dr. Watson." Sherlock turned to John. "Dr. Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan." His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Old friend."

"A colleague?" said Donovan. "How do you get a colleague?!" She turned to John. "What, did he follow you home?"

"Would it be better if I just waited and…" began John.

Sherlock lifted the tape for him. "No."

As John walked under the tape, Donovan lifted a radio to her mouth. "Freak's here. Bringing him in." She led the boys towards the house.

Sherlock looked all around the area and at the ground as they approached, but found no unusual trace of footprints or signs of a high-speed car escape. He looked up as Dr. Phillip Anderson walked out of the house, wearing a coverall. "Ah, Anderson. Here we are again."

Anderson looked at him with distaste. "It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

Sherlock took in another deep breath through his nose, catching a stronger scent of the bergamot, ginger and cumin he had picked up near Donovan. "Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?"

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out," said Anderson. "Somebody told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that," said Sherlock, looking away from him nonchalantly.

"My deodorant?" asked Anderson.

Sherlock gave Anderson a quirky expression. "It's for men."

"Well, of _course_ it's for men!" exclaimed Anderson. " _I'm_ wearing it!"

"So's Sergeant Donovan," said Sherlock, looking past Anderson at Donovan.

Anderson looked round in shock at Donovan.

Sherlock sniffed pointedly. "Ooh, and I think it just vaporized. May I go in?"

Anderson turned back and pointed at him angrily. "Now, look: whatever you're trying to imply—"

"I'm not implying anything." Sherlock headed past Donovan towards the front door. "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat and just happened to stay over." He turned back, unable to resist jabbing an insult back at him in retaliation. "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

Anderson and Donovan stared at him in horror. He smiled smugly and then turned and went into the house. Sherlock led John into a room on the ground floor where Lestrade was putting on a coverall.

Sherlock pointed to a pile of similar items. "You need to wear one of these."

"Who's this?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock took his gloves off. "He's with me."

"But who _is_ he?" asked Lestrade.

"I _said_ he's with me," said Sherlock firmly.

John had taken off his jacket and picked up a coverall. He looked at Sherlock, who had picked up a pair of latex gloves. "Aren't you gonna put one on?"

Sherlock just looked at him sternly. _You don't need one when you know how to_ _ **not**_ _contaminate a crime scene._ He turned to Lestrade. "So, where are we?"

Lestrade picked up another pair of latex gloves. "Upstairs." He led the boys up a circular staircase as Sherlock was putting on latex gloves. "I can give you two minutes."

"May need longer," said Sherlock casually.

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards," said Lestrade. "We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her." He led them into a room two stories above the ground floor.

The room was empty of furniture except for a rocking horse in the far corner. Emergency portable lighting had been set up, presumably by the police. Scaffolding poles held up part of the ceiling near where a couple of large holes had been knocked through one of the walls. A woman's body was lying face down on the bare floorboards in the middle of the room. She was wearing a bright pink overcoat and high-heeled pink shoes. Her hands were flat on the floor either side of her head. Sherlock walked a few steps into the room and then stopped, holding one hand out in front of himself as he focused on the corpse. His eyes moved over every inch of her, gathering what clues he could from first glance. He deduced a few things that should be obvious to anyone, even Lestrade, who was surely even now trying to put what little clues he had picked up together to form a solution.

Sherlock looked across to Lestrade. "Shut up."

"I didn't say anything," said Lestrade.

"You were thinking," said Sherlock. "It's annoying."

Sherlock stepped slowly forward until he reached the side of the corpse. His attention was immediately drawn to the fact that scratched into the floorboards near the woman's left hand was the word "Rache." His eyes flicked to her fingernails where the index and middle nails were broken and ragged at the ends, the pink nail polish chipped in stark comparison to her other nails, which were still immaculate. The woman's index finger rested at the bottom of the "e" as if she was still trying to carve into the floor when she had died.

 _Left-handed._

He looked back to the word carved into the floorboards.

 _Rache… German word for revenge._

Instantly, he shook his head in a tiny dismissive movement and tried to find out if there was a letter that went at the end of the word that made sense.

 _Rachel._

He squatted down beside the body and ran his gloved hand along the back of her coat and then lifted his hand again to look at his fingers, which were covered in rain water. He reached into her coat pockets and found a white folding umbrella in one of them. Running his fingers along the folds of the material, he then inspected his glove again to find it dry. Putting the umbrella back into her pocket, he moved up to the collar of her coat and ran his fingers underneath it before again looking at his fingers, which were wet again. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a small magnifier, clicked it open and closely inspected the delicate gold bracelet on her left wrist, which was polished clean. Her gold earring and gold necklace were also clean, but the wedding and engagement rings on her left hand were tarnished.

 _Unhappily married, for more than ten years._

Carefully, Sherlock worked the wedding ring off the woman's finger and held it up to look at the inside of the ring. While the outside of the ring was tarnished, the inside was as polished as her other jewelry.

 _Serial adulterer._

As Sherlock lowered the ring and slid it back onto the woman's finger, he smiled in satisfaction, lifting his hands away from the woman.

"Got anything?" asked Lestrade.

"Not much," said Sherlock nonchalantly. Standing up, he took off the gloves and then got his mobile phone from his pocket and began typing on it.

"She's German," Anderson spoke up from where he was leaning casually against the doorway.

Sherlock inwardly rolled his eyes. _Always looking for the first explanation that appears._ He turned towards the door, not looking up from his phone.

"'Rache': it's German for 'revenge'," said Anderson. "She could be trying to tell us something—"

Sherlock grabbed the doorknob. "Yes, thank you for your input."

Slamming the door shut, he turned and walked back into the room. On his phone, he had called up a menu for "UK Weather." The menu offered five options:

 **Maps**

 **Local**

 **Warnings**

 **Next 24 hrs**

 **7 day forecast**

He selected the Maps option.

"So, she's German?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock didn't bother to look up from his phone. "Of course she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night…" he smiled smugly when he found the weather map for southern Britain, "before returning home to Cardiff." He pocketed his phone. "So far, so obvious."

"Sorry—obvious?" asked John.

"What about the message, though?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock ignored him and looked at John, needing to draw him into the investigation. _How else am I to interest him in solving crimes?_ "Dr. Watson, what do you think?"

"Of the message?" asked John.

"Of the body," clarified Sherlock. "You're a medical man."

"Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside," said Lestrade.

"They won't work with me," said Sherlock.

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here," said Lestrade.

"Yes…because you need me," said Sherlock.

Lestrade stared at him for a moment and then lowered his eyes helplessly. "Yes, I do. God help me."

"Dr. Watson," said Sherlock.

"Hmm?" John looked up from the body to Sherlock and then turned his head towards Lestrade.

"Oh, do as he says," said Lestrade a little tetchily. "Help yourself." He turned and opened the door, going outside. "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes."

Sherlock and John walked over to the body. Sherlock squatted down on one side of it, and John painfully lowered himself to one knee on the other side, leaning heavily on his cane to support himself.

 _Really need to do something about that,_ Sherlock thought.

"Well?" asked Sherlock.

"What am I doing here?" John asked softly.

"Helping me make a point," said Sherlock equally softly.

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent," muttered John.

"Yeah, well, this is more fun," said Sherlock.

"Fun?" said John. "There's a woman lying dead."

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I _was_ hoping you'd go deeper," said Sherlock.

As Lestrade came back into the room, Sherlock could have sworn he saw a hint of amusement in John's eyes before he looked down at the body, dragging his other leg down into a kneeling position and then leaning forward to look more closely at the woman's body. Sherlock watched as John made his examination, silently cheering when John didn't seem too put off by the task.

John knelt up and looked across to Sherlock. "Yeah…asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs."

"You know what it was," said Sherlock. "You've read the papers."

"What, she's one of the suicides?" asked John. "The fourth?"

"Sherlock, two minutes, I said," said Lestrade. "I need anything you've got."

Sherlock stood while John struggled to get to his feet. "Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?" asked Lestrade.

"Suitcase, yes," said Sherlock. "She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married."

"Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up—" exclaimed Lestrade.

Sherlock pointed down to her left hand. "Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside; that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what—or, rather, who—does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

"That's brilliant," said John admiringly.

Sherlock looked round at him, not used to this reaction at a crime scene.

"Sorry," said John apologetically.

"Cardiff?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock looked back at Lestrade. "It's obvious, isn't it?"

"It's not obvious to me," said John.

Sherlock paused as he looked at the other two. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." He turned back to the body. "Her coat: it's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket, but it's dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind—too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have traveled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" He got his phone from his pocket and showed the other two the webpage he had been looking at earlier. "Cardiff."

"That's fantastic!" said John.

Sherlock turned to him and spoke in a low voice. "D'you know you do that out loud?"

"Sorry," said John. "I'll shut up."

"No, it's…fine," said Sherlock.

"Why d'you keep saying suitcase?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock spun around in a circle to look around the room. "Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing 'Rachel'?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock turned to him, speaking sarcastically. "No, she was leaving an angry note in German. Of course she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"How d'you know she had a suitcase?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock pointed down to the body, where her tights had small black splotches on the lower part of her right leg. "Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night." He squatted down by the woman's body and examined the backs of her legs more closely. "Now, where is it? What have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case," said Lestrade.

Sherlock slowly raised his head and frowned up at Lestrade. "Say that again."

"There wasn't a case," said Lestrade. "There was never any suitcase."

Immediately, Sherlock straightened up and headed for the door, calling out to all the police officers in the house as he began to hurry down the stairs. "Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

Lestrade called down the stairs. "Sherlock, there was no case!"

Sherlock slowed down but still made his way down the stairs. "But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs. Even you lot couldn't miss them."

"Right, yeah, thanks," said Lestrade. "And?"

"It's murder, all of them," said Sherlock, looking up at where Lestrade and John were leaning over the railing. "I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings—serial killings." He held his hands up in front of his face in delight. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to."

"Why are you saying that?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock stopped and called up to the others. "Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case." He lowered his voice to mutter to himself. "So, the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car."

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there," said John.

Sherlock looked up the stairs again. "No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking—" He froze.

 _Color-coordinates…_

"Oh." Sherlock's eyes widened, and his face lit up. "Oh!" He clapped his hands together in delight.

"Sherlock?" asked John.

Lestrade leaned over the railings. "What is it, what?"

Sherlock smiled cheerfully to himself. "Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!" said Lestrade.

"Oh, we're done waiting!" shouted Sherlock, starting to hurry down the stairs again. "Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" He reached the bottom of the stairs and disappeared from view.

Lestrade called after him. "Of course, yeah—but what mistake?!"

Sherlock came back into view and ran up a couple of stairs so that he could look up at them. "PINK!" He hurried off again in search of a pink suitcase.

* * *

Sherlock was lying stretched out on the sofa of 221B with his head towards the window and resting on a cushion. With his jacket off and his shirt sleeves unbuttoned and pushed up his arms, he had his eyes closed, and he was pressing the palm of his right hand firmly onto the underside of his left arm just below the elbow. After some seconds, his eyes snapped open wide, and he stared fixedly up towards the ceiling, and then he sighed out a noisy breath and relaxed as the nicotine coursed through his system. He had just spent the last half hour scouring for the suitcase and had finally found it. Now, he needed to focus on his options for tracking down the killer and getting rid of John's cane. He clenched and unclenched his fist to get the nicotine flowing better through his blood.

John came through the door and then stopped. "What are you doing?"

"Nicotine patch," said Sherlock calmly. "Helps me think." He lifted his right hand to show the three nicotine patches on his arm. "Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work."

John walked further into the room. "It's good news for breathing."

"Oh, breathing," said Sherlock dismissively. "Breathing's boring."

John frowned. "Is that three patches?"

Sherlock pressed his hands together in the prayer position under his chin. "It's a three-patch problem." He closed his eyes, thinking through different plans.

"Well?" asked John.

 _I could use the element of surprise. Somehow, I need to get John to hurry off and forget his cane._

"You asked me to come," said John. "I'm assuming it's important."

 _I did? Why did I ask John to—_ Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "Oh, yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?"

"My phone?" asked John.

"Don't wanna use mine," said Sherlock. "Always a chance that the number will be recognized. It's on the website."

"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone."

"Yeah, she's downstairs. I tried shouting, but she didn't hear." Sherlock closed his eyes once again.

"I was the other side of London."

"There was no hurry."

John didn't speak for a moment. "Here."

Without opening his eyes, Sherlock held out his right hand with the palm up, and John slapped the phone into his hand. Sherlock slowly lifted his arm and put his hands together again, this time with the phone in between his palms.

Sherlock listened as John turned took a few steps. "So, what's this about, the case?"

"Her case," said Sherlock softly.

"Her case?"

Sherlock opened his eyes. "Her suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake."

"Okay, he took her case. So?"

"It's no use, there's no other way," Sherlock muttered to himself. "We'll have to risk it." Raising his voice a little, he imperiously held the phone out towards John, still not looking at him. "On my desk, there's a number. I want you to send a text."

"You brought me here…to send a text."

"Text, yes. The number on my desk." Sherlock continued to hold the phone out.

Eventually, John stomped across the room and snatched the phone from Sherlock's hand. Sherlock refolded his hands under his chin and closed his eyes, but instead of going to the table, John's footsteps moved past Sherlock's head towards the window.

Sherlock opened his eyes and tilted his head slightly towards him. "What's wrong?"

"Just met a friend of yours," said John.

Sherlock frowned in confusion. "A _friend_?"

"An enemy."

Sherlock immediately relaxed. "Oh. Which one?"

"Your archenemy, according to him." John turned towards Sherlock. "Do people have arch-enemies?"

Sherlock looked towards him, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. _Mycroft._ "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes."

"Did you take it?" Sherlock asked, tense. _Did John lie? Did he become my friend because my brother paid him?_

John hesitated for only a second. "No."

"Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time." Sherlock turned his head back, rejoicing at the news.

"Who is he?"

"The most dangerous man you've ever met and not my problem right now." Sherlock raised his voice. "On my desk, the number."

Sherlock looked away again, and John walked over to the desk.

"Jennifer Wilson," said John. "That was… Hang on. Wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes," said Sherlock. "That's not important. Just enter the number."

There was a quiet rustling sound.

"Are you doing it?" asked Sherlock.

"Yes," said John.

"Have you done it?"

"Ye—hang on!"

"These words exactly: 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.'"

"You blacked out?" asked John.

"What? No. No!" Sherlock flipped his legs around and stood up, stepping up and over the coffee table in front of the sofa. "Type and send it. Quickly."

Going into the kitchen, he picked up the small pink suitcase and brought it back into the living room. Walking over to the dining table, he lifted one of the dining chairs and flipped it around, setting it down in front of one of the two armchairs near the fireplace. He put the suitcase onto the dining chair and sat down in the armchair as John typed on his phone.

"Have you sent it?" asked Sherlock.

"What's the address?" asked John.

"Twenty-two Northumberland Street," said Sherlock impatiently. "Hurry up!"

Sherlock unzipped the case and flipped open the lid, revealing the contents. There were a few items of clothing and underwear—all in varying shades of pink—a washbag and a paperback novel by Paul Bunch entitled "Come To Bed Eyes."

As John turned towards the case, he staggered slightly. "That's…that's the pink lady's case. That's Jennifer Wilson's case."

Sherlock studied the case closely. "Yes, obviously." After a moment, he looked up at John to see him staring, and he rolled his eyes. "Oh, perhaps I should mention: I didn't kill her."

"I never said you did," said John.

"Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption."

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"

Sherlock smirked. "Now and then, yes." He put his hands onto the arms of the armchair and lifted his feet up and under him so that he was perching on the seat with his backside braced against the back rest. He clasped his hands under his chin.

"Okay…" John limped across the room and dropped heavily into the armchair on the other side of the fireplace. "How did you get this?"

"By looking."

"Where?"

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention—particularly a man, which is statistically more likely—so, obviously, he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

"Pink. You got _all_ that because you realized the case would be pink?"

"Well, it _had_ to be pink, obviously."

"Why didn't _I_ think of that?" John muttered to himself.

"Because you're an idiot," said Sherlock.

John looked across to him, startled.

Sherlock made a placatory gesture with one hand. "No, no, no, don't look like that. Practically everyone is." He refolded his hands and then extended his index fingers to point at the case. "Now, look. Do you see what's missing?"

"From the case? How could I?"

"Her phone. Where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one. That's her number there; you just texted it."

"Maybe she left it at home."

Sherlock put his hands onto the arms of the chair and raised himself up so that he could lower his feet to the floor and then sat down properly on the chair. "She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home." He put the slip of paper back into the luggage label on the case and looked at John expectantly.

"Er…" John looked down at his mobile phone which he had put onto the arm of his chair, "why did I just send that text?"

"Well, the question is: where is her phone _now_?"

"She could have lost it."

"Yes, or…?"

"The murderer… You think the murderer has the phone?"

"Maybe she left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone."

"Sorry, what are we doing?" asked John. "Did I just text a murderer?! What good will that do?" His phone began to ring. He picked it up and looked at the screen for the Caller I.D. He looked across to Sherlock as the phone continued to ring.

"A few hours after his last victim, and now, he receives a text that can only be from her," said Sherlock. "If somebody had just found that phone, they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer…" he paused dramatically for a moment until the phone stopped ringing, "would panic." He flipped the lid of the suitcase closed and stood up, walking across the room to pick up his jacket. He put on his jacket and walked towards the door.

John finally looked up. "Have you talked to the police?"

"Four people are dead. There isn't time to talk to the police."

"So, why are you talking to _me_?"

Sherlock reached behind the door to take his greatcoat from the hook, looking back towards the mantlepiece to make sure his last letter was in place and noticing something missing. "Mrs. Hudson took my skull."

"So, I'm basically filling in for your skull?"

Sherlock put on his coat. "Relax, you're doing fine."

John didn't move.

"Well?" asked Sherlock.

"Well, what?" asked John.

"Well, you could just sit there and watch telly."

"What, you want me to come with you?"

"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so…" said Sherlock.

John smiled briefly.

"Problem?" asked Sherlock.

"Yeah, Sergeant Donovan."

Sherlock looked away in exasperation. _I swear, Donovan, if you ruin this…_ "What about her?"

"She said…you get off on this. You enjoy it."

"And I said 'dangerous,'" said Sherlock nonchalantly, looking at him, "and here you are." He turned and walked out of the door. He stepped slowly towards the stairs, waiting for it.

After a moment, John's voice came from the flat. "Damn it!"

Sherlock smirked in victory.

* * *

Sherlock led John into a small restaurant. The waiter near the door gestured to a reserved table at the front window.

"Thank you, Billy," said Sherlock.

Taking his coat off, he sat down on the bench seat at the side of the table and immediately turned sideways so that he could see clearly out of the window. There was nothing there yet.

Sherlock nodded to a building over the road as John sat down on the other bench seat with his back to the window. "Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it."

"He isn't just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he?" said John. "He'd need to be mad."

"He _has_ killed four people," said Sherlock.

John hesitated. "Okay."

The owner Angelo came over, clearly pleased to see him. "Sherlock." He shook his hand. "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free." He laid a couple of menus on the table. "On the house, for you and for your date."

"Do you want to eat?" Sherlock asked John.

"I'm not his date," said John.

"This man got me off a murder charge," said Angelo.

"This is Angelo," said Sherlock.

Angelo offered his hand to John, who shook it.

"Three years ago, I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking," said Sherlock.

"He cleared my name," Angelo told John.

"I cleared it a bit," said Sherlock. "Anything happening opposite?"

"Nothing." Angelo looked at John again. "But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You _did_ go to prison," said Sherlock. _Why does he overexaggerate my part in clearing the murder charges? He was still guilty!_

"I'll get a candle for the table," said Angelo. "It's more romantic." He turned and walked away.

Sherlock rolled his eyes a little. _Just because a man doesn't go on dates, that means he's gay? Everyone's an idiot._

"I'm not his date!" John called.

Sherlock put his own menu down onto the table. "You may as well eat. We might have a long wait."

Sherlock stared out the window, quietly drumming his fingers on the table as he waited for something to happen. After a moment, a cab pulled up in front of 22 Northumberland Street. He waited, but no one got out. _Hmm… Wait, did John just say something?_

Sherlock looked round at him. "I'm sorry?"

"In real life," said John. "There are no archenemies in real life. Doesn't happen."

Sherlock disinterestedly looked out of the window again. "Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull."

"So, who did I meet?"

Sherlock avoided the question, not wanting to broach the subject of his brother just yet. "What do real people have, then, in their 'real lives'?"

"Friends, people they know, people they like, people they don't like…girlfriends, boyfriends…"

"Yes, well, as I was saying: dull."

"You don't have a girlfriend, then?"

Sherlock was still looking out of the window at the cab that no one had gotten out of. "Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

"Mm." A moment passed. "Oh, right. D'you have a boyfriend?"

Sherlock looked round at him sharply. _Not you, too, John._

"Which is fine, by the way," said John.

"I know it's fine."

John smiled. "So, you've got a boyfriend, then?"

"No."

John's smile had become a little fixed and awkward. "Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me." He looked down at his plate, apparently rapidly running out of things to say. "Fine." He cleared his throat. "Good." He continued eating.

Sherlock looked at him suspiciously for a moment but then turned his attention out of the window again. Something about the awkwardness John had exhibited struck him, though. It reminded him of the behavior Molly Hooper had displayed the previous day. He had deduced later that Molly had been attempting to flirt.

 _Oh…_

The letters from John had never hinted at anything related to this. It was best he put an end to this now.

"John, um…I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any—" said Sherlock.

"No," John interrupted. He turned his head briefly to clear his throat. "No, I'm not asking. No." He fixed his gaze onto Sherlock's, apparently trying to convey his sincerity. "I'm just saying, it's all fine."

Sherlock looked at him for a moment. _Oh…does this mean Molly wasn't flirting either?_ He nodded. "Good. Thank you." He turned his attention back to the street and nodded out of the window. "Look across the street. Taxi."

John twisted in his seat to look out of the window where a taxi had parked at the side of the road with its back end towards the restaurant.

"Stopped," said Sherlock. "Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out."

In the rear seat of the taxi, the male passenger was looking through the side windows as if trying to see somebody particular.

"Why a taxi?" Sherlock muttered. Something connected in his mind as the clues flashed through his mind. "Oh, that's clever." He frowned. " _Is_ it clever? _Why_ is it clever?"

"That's him?"

"Don't stare."

John looked round at him. " _You're_ staring."

"We can't _both_ stare," said Sherlock, grabbing his coat and scarf as he got to his feet and headed for the door. He hurried out the door, hoping that he'd laid enough mysteriousness to grab John's interest.

Outside the door, Sherlock shrugged himself into his coat while keeping his eyes fixed on the taxi. The passenger continued to look around him and then turned and looked out the back window. His gaze fell on the restaurant, and he looked at it for a few moments while Sherlock stared back at him. The man turned towards the front of the vehicle, and the taxi began to pull away from the curb.

Sherlock immediately headed towards it and was almost run over by a car coming from his left. The driver slammed on the brakes and stopped the car, but Sherlock allowed his forward impetus to carry him onto the top of the bonnet. He rolled over the bonnet, landed on his feet on the other side and then ran after the taxi. As the driver of the car angrily sounded his horn, Sherlock listened to John taking the same path over the bonnet, apologizing to the driver as he went. There wasn't the sound of a cane whatsoever.

 _Success!_

Sherlock ran a few yards up the road before realizing that he wasn't going to catch the taxi and slowed to a halt.

John caught up and stopped beside him. "I've got the cab number."

"Good for you." Sherlock brought his hands up to either side of his head and concentrated, calling up a mental map of the local area and overlaying it with images of the streets along the route which he calculated that the taxi must take. "Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights."

Having worked out the route, he lifted his head and saw a man unlocking the door to a nearby building. Sherlock raced towards the man and grabbed him, shoving him out of the way before charging into the building.

"Oi!" said the man.

John apologized to the man as he followed Sherlock, and the two of them raced up the stairs and out onto a metal spiral fire escape staircase leading to the roof. Sherlock took the steps two or even three at a time, and John struggled to keep up with him as he scurried up behind him.

"Come on, John," called Sherlock.

Reaching the top of the stairs, Sherlock ran to the edge and looked over before seeing a shorter metal spiral staircase leading down the side of the building to another door one floor lower. He galloped down the stairs and climbed onto the railing before leaping across the gap to the next building. John scrambled onto the railing and followed. Sherlock ran across to the other side of the roof and again leapt across to the next building.

"Come on, John," shouted Sherlock. "We're losing him!"

Dropping down onto a walkway along the side of the building, they ran onwards. The taxi continued its journey on the ground, and they galloped down another metal staircase and then ran to a ledge and dropped down into an alleyway before running onwards again. Sherlock led John down the alleyway and turned the corner, racing down the last part of the alley, only to see the taxi drive past the end, heading to the left.

"Ah, no!" said Sherlock angrily. Without breaking stride, he raced out of the end of the alley and turned right. "This way." He heard John's footsteps head away from him. "No, _this_ way!"

"Sorry." John turned and headed back in the opposite direction, following Sherlock.

They ran down the street, heading down more alleyways and side streets towards the interception point in Wardour Street and finally, at the precise point which his mental map had predicted, Sherlock raced out of a side street and hurled himself into the path of the approaching cab, which screeched to a halt as he crashed hard into the bonnet.

Scrabbling in his left coat pocket, Sherlock pulled out an I.D. badge and flashed it at the driver as he ran to the right-hand side of the cab. "Police! Open her up!" Panting heavily, he tugged open the rear door and stared in at the passenger, who looked back at him anxiously. Instantly, Sherlock straightened up in exasperation just as John joined him. "No." He leaned down again to look at the passenger a second time. "Teeth, tan: what—Californian?" He looked at something on the floor in front of the passenger. "L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived." He straightened up again, grimacing.

"How can you _possibly_ know that?" asked John.

"The luggage." Sherlock looked down at the suitcase on the floor of the cab and its luggage label showing that the man had flown from LAX to LHR. "It's probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?"

"Sorry—are you guys the police?" asked the passenger.

"Yeah." Sherlock flashed the I.D. badge briefly at the man. "Everything all right?"

The passenger smiled. "Yeah."

Sherlock paused for a moment as he wondered how to finish this conversation and then smiled falsely at the man. "Welcome to London." He immediately walked away, heading for an alleyway some distance away.

After a moment, John caught up with him. "Basically just a cab that happened to slow down."

"Basically," said Sherlock.

"Not the murderer."

" _Not_ the murderer, no."

"Wrong country, good alibi."

"As they go." Sherlock switched the I.D. card to his other hand.

"Hey, where-where did you get this? Here." John reached for the card, and Sherlock released it. "Right." He looked at the name on the card. "Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Yeah," said Sherlock. "I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat."

John nodded and then looked down at the card again before lifting his head and giggling silently.

"What?" asked Sherlock.

"Nothing, just: 'Welcome to London,'" said John.

Sherlock chuckled and then looked down the road to where a police officer had apparently gone to investigate why the cab had stopped in the middle of the road. The passenger had got out and was pointing down the road towards the boys.

"Got your breath back?" Sherlock asked John.

"Ready when you are," he replied.

They turned and ran off down the road.

* * *

The boys had arrived back at 221B and walked along the hallway, breathing heavily. John hung his jacket on a hook on the wall while Sherlock draped his coat over the bottom of the banisters.

"Okay, that was ridiculous," said John as they leaned side by side against the wall, still trying to catch their breath. "That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"And you invaded Afghanistan," said Sherlock.

John giggled, and after a moment, Sherlock also began to laugh.

"That wasn't just me," said John.

Sherlock chuckled, looking down at John's centered weight as he leaned against the wall. _He still doesn't notice that he has no cane. Amazing._

"Why aren't we back at the restaurant?" asked John.

Sherlock became more serious and waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway."

"So, what were we doing there?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Oh, just passing the time." He looked at John. "And proving a point."

"What point?"

"You." Sherlock turned and called loudly towards the door to Mrs. Hudson's ground floor flat. "Mrs. Hudson! Doctor Watson _will_ take the room upstairs."

"Says who?" asked John.

 _Says you,_ Sherlock thought, but instead, he looked towards the front door. "Says the man at the door."

John turned his head towards the door just as someone knocked on it three times. He turned back to look at Sherlock in surprise. Sherlock smiled. John stared at him for a moment and then walked along the hall to answer the door. Sherlock leaned his head against the wall and blew out a breath, listening to the conversation as John opened the door.

"Sherlock texted me," said Angelo. "He said you forgot this."

Sherlock looked over at the door to see John grabbing his cane in surprise before turning and looking down the hall at him. Sherlock grinned at him.


	12. Chapter 12

C11

 **30 January 2010**

Sherlock flung open the door to the sitting room, finding DI Lestrade sitting in _his_ armchair as police officers searched the place. He stormed over to Lestrade, furious. "What are you doing?"

"Well, I knew you'd find the case," said Lestrade. "I'm not stupid."

"You can't just break into my flat," said Sherlock. _**Our**_ _flat._

"And you can't withhold evidence," said Lestrade. "And I didn't break into your flat."

"Well, what do you call this, then?" asked Sherlock, gesturing to the flat that the imbecilic officers were now desecrating. _What if they found the letters?_

Lestrade looked round at his officers before looking back to Sherlock innocently. "It's a drugs bust."

Sherlock was brought back to John's letters and his mentioning that Lestrade was the one to thank for telling John about the drugs. _So, Lestrade not only told John about the drugs, but he staged a drugs bust to do so. What an excellent way to break the news._

"Seriously?!" said John. " _This_ guy, a junkie?! Have you met him?!"

Sherlock turned and walked closer to John, biting his lip nervously. _He doesn't sound very approving. This can't be good…_ "John…"

"I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational," John told Lestrade.

"John, you probably want to shut up now," said Sherlock.

"Yeah, but come on…" John looked over at him.

Sherlock held his gaze for a long moment, trying to remind himself that John had said they had still become good friends and flatmates. If John found out about the drugs from the get-go, then that **had** to mean he didn't mind all that much.

"No," said John in a disbelieving tone.

"What?" said Sherlock.

" _You_?" said John.

"Shut up!" said Sherlock. He turned back to Lestrade. "I'm not your sniffer dog."

"No, _Anderson's_ my sniffer dog." Lestrade nodded towards the kitchen.

"What, An—" began Sherlock. _Oh, not him. Not here._

The closed doors to the kitchen slid open and revealed several more officers in there searching through the room. Anderson turned towards the living room and raised his hand.

"Anderson, what are _you_ doing here on a drugs bust?" Sherlock yelled.

"Oh, I volunteered," said Anderson venomously.

Sherlock turned away, biting his lip angrily. _Bloody idiot. Probably can't wait to get his hands on anything that could get me arrested._

"They all did," said Lestrade. "They're not strictly speaking _on_ the drugs squad, but they're very keen."

"Are these _human_ eyes?"

Sherlock turned to see Donovan standing in the entryway, his jar of eyes that he was testing to see how they reacted in a stable environment with barium chloride. And now, Donovan had ruined the entire experiment was waving the jar around and disturbing that stable environment.

"Put those back!" yelled Sherlock.

"They were in the microwave!" said Donovan.

"It's an experiment," said Sherlock.

"Keep looking, guys." Lestrade stood up and turned to Sherlock. "Or you could help us properly and I'll stand them down."

Sherlock angrily paced, furious and amazed at their stupidity. _All they have to do is wait! I almost have it solved!_ "This is childish."

"Well, I'm dealing with a child," said Lestrade. "Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do _not_ go off on your own. Clear?"

Sherlock stopped and glared at him. "Oh, what, so-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?"

"It stops being pretend if they find anything," said Lestrade.

"I am clean!" yelled Sherlock, his eyes glancing in the direction of John for a split second.

"Is your flat?" asked Lestrade. "All of it?"

"I don't even smoke." Sherlock unbuttoned the cuff of his left shirt and pulled it up to show the single nicotine patch left on his lower arm.

"Neither do I." Lestrade pulled up the right sleeves of his own jacket and shirt to show a similar patch on his arm.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away, pulling his sleeve down.

"So, let's work together," said Lestrade. "We've found Rachel."

Sherlock turned back to him. _Finally! the police are useful._ "Who is she?"

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter," said Lestrade.

Sherlock frowned. "Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

"Never mind that," said Anderson. "We found the case." He pointed to the pink suitcase in the living room. "According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath."

 _If I had done it, why would I tell the police the one clue that would bring me down? Idiot!_

Sherlock looked at him disparagingly. "I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research."

 _What kind of "doctor" can't even tell basic psychological disorders apart?_

Sherlock turned back to Lestrade. "You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. _I_ need to question her."

"She's dead," said Lestrade.

 _Dead! Yes! This has to be connected!_

"Excellent!" said Sherlock. "How, when and why? Is there a connection? There _has_ to be."

"Well, I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years," said Lestrade. "Technically, she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago."

 _Fourteen years? That doesn't make sense. What could have possibly happened in that room with her serial killer that would bring her to carve her dead daughter of fourteen years' name in the floor?_ Sherlock frowned. "No, that's…that's not right. How—why would she do that? _Why_?"

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?" said Anderson. "Yup, sociopath. I'm seeing it now."

Sherlock turned to him with an exasperated look on his face. "She didn't think about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It would have hurt." He began to pace back and forth across the room again.

"You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it," said John. "Well, maybe he…I don't know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow."

Sherlock stopped and turned to him. "Yeah, but that was _ages_ ago. Why would she still be upset?"

John stared at him.

Sherlock realized that everyone in the flat had stopped what they were doing and had fallen silent. He glanced around the room and then looked awkwardly at John. "Not good?"

John also glanced around at the others before turning back to Sherlock. "Bit not good, yeah."

Sherlock shook it off and stepped closer to John, looking at him intently. "Yeah, but if you were dying—if you'd been murdered—in your very last few seconds what would you say?"

"'Please, God, let me live,'" said John.

"Oh, use your imagination!" said Sherlock in exasperation.

"I don't _have_ to," said John.

Sherlock recognized the look of pain in John's face. John had never given him details about his life, so Sherlock had no way of knowing what he had gone through. He knew John was shot; the most probable injury that would end a career in the army is either a bad gunshot in the wrong place or a bomb. Since John didn't appear to be missing any limbs, he was going with gunshot. Since his leg was psychosomatic, the shot was most likely in one of his arms. And it must have been bad to end not only his career as a soldier but as a doctor as well. What John must have gone through when he was shot…

Sherlock paused momentarily and blinked a couple of times, shifting his feet apologetically before continuing. "Yeah, but if you were clever, _really_ clever—Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers; she was clever." He started to pace again. "She's trying to tell us something."

 _What is it? What?_

"Isn't the doorbell working?" Mrs. Hudson interrupted his thoughts. "Your taxi's here, Sherlock."

"I didn't order a taxi," said Sherlock. "Go away." He continued pacing.

 _Jennifer Wilson carved her dead daughter's name in the floorboards. The murderer stole her phone. Rachel has something to do with the phone, what,_ _ **what**_ _?!_

"Oh, dear. They're making such a mess. What are they looking for?"

 _Jennifer Wilson didn't have—_

"It's a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson."

 _Jennifer Wilson didn't have a laptop, so—_

"But they're just for my hip. They're herbal soothers."

Grimacing in frustration at the interruption, Sherlock stopped and shouted out. "Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."

"What? My _face_ is?!"

"Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back."

 _Jennifer Wilson didn't have a laptop in her suitcase—_

"Oh, for God's sake!"

— _so she worked with—_

"Your back, now, please!"

"Come on, think," Sherlock muttered to himself. "Quick!"

"What about your taxi?" asked Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock turned to her and shouted furiously. "MRS. HUDSON!"

— _her smartphone._

Sherlock stopped and looked around as the pieces finally clicked. "Oh." He smiled in delight. "Ah! She was clever, clever, yes!" He walked across the room and then turned back to the others. "She's cleverer than you lot, and she's dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn't lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him." He started pacing again. "When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer."

"But how?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock stopped and stared at him. "Wha…what do you mean, how?"

Lestrade shrugged.

"Rachel!" Sherlock looked at everyone triumphantly.

They all looked back at him blankly.

"Don't you see?" said Sherlock. "Rachel!"

Still, everyone looked blank.

Sherlock laughed in disbelief. "Oh, look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing." Sherlock's tone became stern. "Rachel is not a name."

"Then what is it?" asked John, also sternly.

"John, on the luggage, there's a label," said Sherlock. "E-mail address." He moved towards the dining table.

"Er, jennie dot pink at mephone dot org dot uk," John read off.

Sherlock sat down and opened his computer notebook. "Oh, I've been too slow. She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it's a smartphone; it's e-mail enabled." He pulled up Mephone's website and typed the email address into the "User name" box. "So, there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address—" he began to type into the "Password" box, "—and all together now, the password is…"

"Rachel," said John from over his shoulder.

"So, we can read her e-mails," said Anderson. "So what?"

"Anderson, don't talk out loud," said Sherlock. "You lower the I.Q. of the whole street. We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It's a smartphone; it's got GPS, which means if you lose it you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her."

"Unless he got rid of it," said Lestrade.

"We know he didn't," said John.

Sherlock looked at the screen impatiently as the website searched. "Come on, come on. Quickly!"

"Sherlock, dear. This taxi driver—"

Sherlock got to his feet and walked over towards Mrs. Hudson at the door. "Mrs. Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?" He then turned to Lestrade. "We need to get vehicles, get a helicopter. We're gonna have to move fast. This phone battery won't last forever."

"We'll just have a map reference, not a name," said Lestrade.

"It's a start!" said Sherlock.

"Sherlock…" said John.

"It narrows it down from just anyone in London," Sherlock told Lestrade. "It's the first proper lead that we've had."

"Sherlock…" John repeated.

Sherlock hurried across the room to the dining table, where John had sat down in his vacated seat. He leaned over John's shoulder. "What is it? Quickly, where?"

The map on the website showed a dot blinking in a building labeled "221 Baker Street."

 _Baker Street?_

"It's here," said John. "It's in 221 Baker Street."

Sherlock straightened up. "How can it be here? _How_?"

"Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back, and it fell out somewhere," said Lestrade.

"What, and I didn't notice it?" said Sherlock. " _Me_? _I_ didn't notice?"

"Anyway, we texted him, and he called back," John told Lestrade.

Lestrade turned to call out to his colleagues. "Guys, we're also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim…"

Sherlock tuned him out as he tried to think. There was no way that phone could be lying around the flat. If Jennifer Wilson had kept the phone in the suitcase instead of a coat pocket, it would have been zipped up tight. It was what she had done her work on, so she wouldn't risk losing it. It couldn't have just fallen out; the zippers were closed ever since he had found the case. The first time he had opened them, he would have noticed a phone falling out if he was staring right at the case. He had searched the entire thing. There wasn't a phone anywhere in it. Not to mention, John was right. They had texted the phone, and the person who had it had called back. Clearly, someone had the phone, and he very much doubted it was himself or John.

So, this meant that the person who had the phone was now in the flat, and it was someone who hadn't been here last time. He highly doubted it was someone from the Yard. Even if they were idiots, they weren't criminals. Other than John, the Yard and Mrs. Hudson, the only other person—

 _The cabbie. Of course… A taxi that no one had called for…_

" _Who do we trust, even if we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go?"_

Sir Jeffrey Patterson's secretary had said that the car hadn't picked him up, that he had had to call for a cab.

" _Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"_

James Phillimore could have waved down a passing taxi to avoid the rain. Beth Davenport would have called for a cab after her colleagues took away her car keys. And Jennifer Wilson, of course, would have gotten a cab at the train terminus.

 _It was the cabbie._

It all made sense. The cabbie would have been able to abduct them all in plain sight without them ever thinking anything about it. Why hadn't he seen it before?

His phone went off, and Sherlock pulled it out to see one message:

COME WITH ME

Sherlock turned and looked towards the door, where an old man wearing a cap was walking down the stairs.

 _The game is on._

* * *

Sherlock sat on the back steps of an ambulance, thinking through the last half hour.

Moriarty. That had been the cabbie's last word. A man who would pay for each person the cabbie had killed. A man who was obsessed with Sherlock Holmes. But that wasn't even what kept sticking in Sherlock mind.

 _Who had shot that cabbie?_

Obviously, he was trained with a gun. But it was more than that. The shooter was—

Sherlock glanced down in confusion as a paramedic put an orange blanket around his shoulders.

 _Oh, not again._

Sherlock frowned up at Lestrade as he approached, gesturing to the blanket. "Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me."

"Yeah, it's for shock," said Lestrade.

"I'm not _in_ shock," said Sherlock.

"Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs." Lestrade grinned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "So, the shooter. No sign?"

"Cleared off before we got 'ere. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but…" Lestrade shrugged, "got nothing to go on."

Sherlock looked at him and smirked. "Oh, I wouldn't say that."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Okay, gimme."

Sherlock stood up. "The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon—that's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly, he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service…" he turned his head to look around the area and saw John standing some distance away behind the police tape, "and nerves of steel…" He trailed off.

John looked back at him and then turned his head away.

 _Acclimatized to violence, strong moral principle, history of military service, nerves of steel…_

 _Why would John kill someone for me?_

 _Had this happened the first time around? And John had still become his friend? Or had they caught the cabbie another way? And now, John wouldn't want to be friends because I put him in a situation where he had to kill someone. Did I just ruin the timeline?_

 _And now, Lestrade is getting suspicious._

Sherlock turned back to Lestrade. "Actually, do you know what? Ignore me."

"Sorry?" asked Lestrade.

"Ignore all of that. It's just the, er, the shock talking." Sherlock started to walk towards John.

"Where're you going?"

"I just need to talk about the-the rent."

"But I've still got questions for you."

Sherlock turned back to him in irritation. "Oh, what now? I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket!" He brandished the sides of the blanket at Lestrade to prove it.

"Sherlock!" said Lestrade.

" _And_ I just caught you a serial killer…more or less."

Lestrade looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. "Okay. We'll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go."

Sherlock walked away. Taking the infernal blanket from around his shoulders, Sherlock bundled it up as he approached John, who was standing at the side of a police car with his hands behind his back. Sherlock tossed the blanket through the open window of the car and ducked under the police tape.

"Um, Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything, the two pills," said John at a decent attempt at naivety. "Been a dreadful business, hasn't it? Dreadful."

Sherlock stared at him. He needed to get an understanding of where John's mind was at now. He had to know if he had changed the timeline. "Good shot."

John tried and utterly failed to look innocent. "Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window."

"Well, you'd know," said Sherlock.

John gazed up at him, still unsuccessfully trying not to let his expression give him away. Honestly, it was almost adorable how he thought he could fool Sherlock.

"Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers," said Sherlock. "I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case."

John cleared his throat and looked around nervously.

"Are you all right?" asked Sherlock.

"Yes, of course I'm all right," said John.

"Well, you _have_ just killed a man," said Sherlock.

"Yes, I…" John trailed off.

Sherlock looked at him closely, holding his breath.

"That's true, innit?" John smiled.

Sherlock continued to watch him carefully. _A smile. That's promising._

"But he wasn't a very _nice_ man," said John, the amusement clear in his voice.

Reassured that John really was okay, Sherlock nodded in agreement. "No. No, he wasn't really, was he?"

"And frankly, a bloody awful cabbie," said John.

Sherlock chuckled. _Finally, someone who can joke about crimes._ He turned and started to lead them away. "That's true. He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here!"

John giggled as Sherlock smiled. "Stop! Stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene! Stop it!"

"You're the one who shot him. Don't blame me."

"Keep your voice down!" said John as they walked past Sergeant Donovan. "Sorry, it's just, um, nerves, I think."

Sherlock turned to Donovan. "Sorry." He turned back with a frown.

 _Unbelievable. He made me apologize to_ _ **Donovan**_ _._

John cleared his throat as they walked away from Donovan. "You were gonna take that damned pill, weren't you?"

Sherlock stopped and turned back to him. "Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up."

"No, you didn't. It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot."

Sherlock smiled, delighted that he had finally found someone who understood him and—more to the point—didn't care about his behavior. After a moment, he forced the smile down. "Dinner?"

"Starving," said John.

* * *

 **31 January 2010**

 **31st January**

 **My new flatmate**

 **So, last night I went to look at the flat. It's pretty decent actually. Sherlock had already moved in so it was a bit of a mess but that 's actually a nice change from where I was before.**

 **And the madman himself? He's fascinating. Arrogant, imperious, pompous. He's not safe, I know that much. I'm not going to be bored and I doubt we're going to be arguing about whose turn it is to pay the gas bill or what we're going to watch on the telly. And yeah, he is probably most likely definitely mad. But, he knows a couple of nice restaurants so he's not all bad.**

 **So yes, we had a quick look at the flat and chatted to the landlady. Then the police came and asked Sherlock to look at a body so we went along to a crime scene, then we chased through the streets of London after a killer and Sherlock solved the serial suicides/murder thing.**

 **And then we went to this great Chinese restaurant where my fortune cookie said 'There is nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before. ' After the night I'd had, I beg to differ.**

* * *

" _31 January 2010_

 _John,_

 _I must admit, I doubted your assertions that we would become such close friends. I had trouble imagining anyone that would want to be around me, let alone call me a friend. But anyone who would risk prison to save my life and have the nerve to both stand up to Mycroft and call me an idiot to my face would make an excellent companion indeed._

 _Although, I must admit that I worried I had ruined the timeline when I deduced you had been the shooter. This time anomaly is making everything very difficult to maneuver. How do I know what did or didn't happen the first time you lived through this? What if my actions change the future, your present?_

 _Sherlock"_

* * *

" _1/2/2010_

 _Sherlock,_

 _If anyone can deduce what their actions would be if they didn't know the future, it would be you. Besides, nothing has changed here. You didn't ruin anything. Just be yourself. Time will tell._

 _Okay, totally didn't mean to make that cheesy pun._

 _John"_


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 12

 **Sorry this took so long. Life's been busy.**

* * *

 **31 January 2012**

John stepped into Greg's office, closing the door behind him. "Hey, Greg."

"John," greeted Greg, looking up from the case file on his desk. "What are you doing here?"

John sat down across from the desk with a sigh. "Two years ago yesterday, Sherlock and I solved our first case."

"Oh, right," said Greg, sitting back in his chair. "'A Study in Pink.'"

"Yeah," said John. "And I was wondering if you noticed anything different."

"Different?" asked Greg.

"About Sherlock's death," said John. "Anything that might have changed?"

"You want to see if history changed after Sherlock met you," said Greg with a nod.

John nodded. "Basically."

Greg's gaze trailed off to the wall as he thought. "No." He looked back at John. "Nothing. Everything is exactly as I remember it." He paused for a moment. "Including the funeral."

John let out his breath and rubbed his hand over his brow. "I thought so." He shook his head. "Why haven't things changed? I mean, history should have changed when that first letter was sent back, right?"

"Unless history doesn't change for us until it changes for him," Greg suggested. "Which means…"

"We won't know if he's alive until June 12, 2013," finished John. "Then again, what if we don't know when something changes? I mean, if the past changes, then our memories would, too, so it would be like the new memories have been there all along, right?"

"Are you asking me or just thinking out loud?" asked Lestrade. "Because I have no clue." He leaned forward, placing his arms on his desk. "However…there has to be something intelligent behind this. How else do you explain the letters being able to go back and forth like that? It can't just be random. And if it isn't random, then whatever is behind this much know that you'll know when your memories change. Otherwise, this whole 'changing the past' thing wouldn't work."

"So, some…thing out there set this all up?" asked John.

Lestrade spread his hands. "Hey, I'm just thinking out loud. I thought that was what we were doing."

John smiled.

"And don't forget, we still remember that baseboard being blank, even though Sherlock carved those words in it," said Lestrade.

John nodded, staring down at the floor. It was true; they even had the video tape to prove it. He stopped and looked up at Lestrade, a smile breaking out on his face. "Lestrade, you're a genius!" He jumped up from the chair and left the office, completely missing Lestrade's confused expression.

* * *

 **1 February 2012**

John placed his letter on the mantel, turning towards the door to leave when his phone rang.

"Hello?" John answered.

"John, it's Mike," Dr. Mike Stamford replied.

"Mike, hi," said John. "How are things?"

"Good, but I hear you're having a hard time getting office space for your practice," said Mike.

"A bit, yeah," said John, sighing at the reminder.

"Well, I have a friend who is moving to Leeds," said Mike. "He's looking to sell his offices. You have time to take a look?"

"Yeah," said John as a smile appeared on his face. "Yeah, I can drop by over lunch."

"Great, I'll tell him you're coming," said Mike. "562 Kensington. Twelve o'clock?"

"Sounds great," said John. "See you then."

* * *

A knock came at the door, and John glanced up from the letter he was writing.

"Hey, John," said Greg, stepping into 221B. "Any new letters?"

"Yeah," said John, standing and taking the small pile of letters from the bookshelf. "Here."

Lestrade took the letters and sat on the sofa to read them as John went back to his letter.

" _1/2/12_

 _Sherlock,_

 _Nothing has changed here, so you can quit worrying. You're doing an excellent job pretending you don't know the future. Well, one thing has changed: I finally have my own practice. Not yet; the current tenant doesn't vacate for another month. Not to worry, though. I am just as ready as ever to run off on a case when you finally catch up to me. (And, no, I am not telling you why I am not currently on cases, so drop it.)_

 _I've had an idea, although I'm not too sure how you'll feel about it. Would you be agreeable to keeping a sort of vlog going (it stands for video blog)? I'm not asking for anything like a diary. I know you would absolutely despise that. Just instead of writing letters, you tape them (would save you time for cases!), and maybe you leave the camera running every once in a while. This whole thing would be interesting to see from your side of things."_

Of course, this wasn't his real reason for wanting videos. He wanted to see his best friend again, but he couldn't very well tell Sherlock that. The man would deduce his death and probably ruin everything.

" _Wish I could do the same, but you would just deduce so much from it that you're not ready to know. Besides, now you have an actual John Watson to fill in some of the blanks._

 _John"_

John folded the letter and walked towards the fireplace.

"So, what was that about this morning?" asked Lestrade as he folded up the last letter. "Why am I a genius?"

John brandished the letter he had just written. "The video. The one of Sherlock carving the baseboard. I've asked him to make videos instead of letters."

Lestrade smiled. "Oh, that's perfect. What a great idea!"

"Let's hope he thinks the same," said John, affixing the letter to the mantel.

* * *

 **18 February 2012**

John stepped down the stairs to the main area of 221B, yawning as he headed into the kitchen. He moved around the room, making coffee and some toast. As he waited for everything to warm up, he went to the sitting room doors and glanced at the mantelpiece, not really expecting to find anything. Sherlock hadn't written him in two weeks after John had suggested the videos. This morning, however, there sat a flashdrive pinned in place by the knife.

John rushed forward and removed the knife, taking the drive and heading towards his laptop. His head snapped back up at the sound of the toaster springing up. He snatched his laptop and headed into the kitchen, setting it on the table and pulling the toast out onto a plate. Hurriedly putting butter on the toast and filling his cup with coffee, he turned and sat at the table, inserting the drive into his laptop. Once he opened the file, an image of 221B's sitting room appeared on the screen.

 **Sherlock stepped away from the camera and turned towards it. "So, I've decided to take you up on your offer. You know very well that my mind works faster than I can write."**

John smiled, happy beyond belief to see his friend again. It was a strange sensation sitting here watching a video that was recorded two years ago before Sherlock's death and yet have him talking about things they had discussed just a few weeks ago.

" **I've had to edit these quite a bit due to my forgetting it was on and filming all day long," said Sherlock.**

John laughed. _Yeah, he_ _ **would**_ _forget._

" **Today is the third, and we still haven't gotten a new case after the serial killer cabbie," said Sherlock. "Well, someone emailed about a missing engagement ring. Not worth my time."**

John chuckled.

" **I'm glad to hear that our—or, rather,** _ **your**_ **—history remains intact," said Sherlock. He then gave a frown as his gaze drifted off to the side. "Although, that is an intriguing idea. Would you even know if history changed? I suppose you would, otherwise you would have known those carvings were already there…"**

John shook his head. Somehow, Sherlock always deduced everything, even a conversation he couldn't possibly have known about.

 **Sherlock pulled in a breath as he looked back at the camera. "I understand your reasons for not sending videos yourself. However, I wonder if you would make just one with as few clues as you can manage. I would greatly appreciate the chance to see you." He then lifted what looked like a small remote and pointed it at the camera.**

The feed cut out and switched to a shot of the sitting room and kitchen as though the camera were sitting on the table between the two windows. Sherlock was barely in view, the edge of his dressing gown swaying on the edge of the screen as the sounds of a violin flooded from the speakers.

 **John stepped in from the kitchen, a cup of tea in hand. "When you said, 'the worst about each other,' I assumed you meant your** _ **skills**_ **with a violin. You're actually very good."**

John shook his head. This video was placed on this drive in the last two weeks, and yet, he remembered this morning happening two years ago. This time travel business was starting to make his head hurt again.

 **Sherlock stopped playing and turned to look at John, who had sat in his armchair. "This doesn't annoy you?"**

 **John looked up at him with a shrug and a frown. "Why would it? You can actually play."**

 **Sherlock slowly turned back towards the windows. "It annoyed everyone else."**

 **John looked up at Sherlock's back for a moment. "Sounds like everyone else needs to lay off, then." He set his tea down on the table beside him and picked up the newspaper.**

" **John Watson, you continue to amaze me," muttered Sherlock, barely loud enough to hear.**

 **John looked up at him. "What was that?"**

" **Nothing," said Sherlock, starting to play again.**

 **John watched him a moment before shrugging and going back to his paper.**

The scene jumped to another day.

 **Sherlock sat in his armchair, his fingers steepled in front of his face. He narrowed his eyes and then called out. "John!"**

 **After a moment, John stepped into the sitting room. "Yeah?"**

" **We need milk," Sherlock stated.**

 **John frowned. "Okay…"**

" **The shop on the corner," Sherlock told him.**

" **All right, I'll get some on my way back from my therapist's," said John, turning to leave.**

" **No," said Sherlock. "Now."**

 **John turned back, his brows raised. "Now?"**

 **Sherlock didn't answer.**

" **What, and you can't be bothered to do it?" asked John.**

" **I'm on a case," said Sherlock.**

 **John rolled his eyes, grabbed his coat and headed out the door.**

 **Sherlock sat still in his chair until the distant sound of the front door opening and closing was heard. He then leapt to his feet and began pacing, glancing at the camera every so often.**

" **John H. Watson," muttered Sherlock. "You refuse to tell me your middle name; you don't want anyone to know it. However, the fact that you use the initial clearly says you are not embarrassed by it; you merely hate it." He stopped and faced the camera. "So, this is what you meant when you mentioned not telling me your middle name." He stepped closer to the camera. "Would** _ **you**_ **tell me? Surely, I've already found out in your past and you know that I don't care. It's simply a mystery to solve."**

" **Ooh-hoo!"**

 **Sherlock immediately straightened up and turned back to his chair, sitting as Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door.**

" **Morning, Sherlock!" she greeted as she set the tea on the table in front of the sofa. She turned back to him with a frown. "Who were you talking to?"**

" **Myself," said Sherlock nonchalantly as he pressed his fingertips together.**

The video ended, and John pulled the drive from the laptop, mulling over Sherlock's suggestion. He wanted to give Sherlock his request of a video, but could he do so in a way that didn't give any clues to the future? He probably could, if he was careful.

* * *

"—so, just another thirteen months, and I'll be able to tell you everything," said John. "But don't worry. You'll bee plenty entertained till then. Wish I could keep this up for you, but…well, you know. Keeping you in the dark is hard enough, but I can't imagine how _you_ handle it. How did you manage to keep me from finding out all this time?" He turned the camera off and leaned back in his chair.

"Ooh-hoo!" greeted Mrs. Hudson as she entered the kitchen. "Who were you talking to, John?"

John was reminded so forcibly of a similar scene from Sherlock's video that he had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. _Mrs. Hudson. Ever the eavesdropper._

Mrs. Hudson frowned at the sheet that was hanging behind him. "What are you doing?"

John gestured down to the camera. "Just a video journal, Mrs. Hudson. My therapist's idea." He then stood and pulled the sheet down that he had hung to try and eliminate clues from the background. "I didn't want the dishes in the background." He gestured to the counter, grateful there were dishes there he had not gotten to yet.

"Oh, what a lovely idea," said Mrs. Hudson. "When my father passed, I kept a journal where I wrote letters to him. It was like having him back again." She bustled off to the sitting room.

John watched her go, smirking. _You have no idea._

* * *

" **16** **th** **of February, 2010," said Sherlock, standing facing the fireplace as he spoke to the camera. "I must applaud you on the video, John. Anything I deduced was already known from our letters and living with you here in the past. It seems having me as a flatmate has done you good.**

" **I kept your letters at first, but since you moved in, I've decided it was too dangerous having them around. I've taken to burning them. Although, you did find a charred portion of a letter (thankfully nothing damaging), and I had to explain that I've been practicing forgery. You were apparently amazed at how well I could replicate your handwriting.**

" **Nothing new here. Horribly boring cases; nothing worth repeating to you since you've already lived it. Although, I did receive an email about a missing diamond. That looks promising."**

" **What looks promising?"**

 **Sherlock turned quickly towards the door. "What?"**

" **You said something looks promising," said John as he walked in with the shopping in his hand. "New case?"**

" **Possibly," said Sherlock.**

" **Good," said John, holding up the bag in his hand. "Then maybe we won't have to pick up milk for a while." He turned and headed towards the kitchen. "I don't understand how we keep running out. It's not like you eat all that much."**

 **Sherlock watched John closely as he quickly pulled the remote out and aimed it at the camera to turn it off.**

* * *

" _19/2/12_

 _So, that's why you always sent me for milk, isn't it? You wanted to get me out of the flat so you could record a video. What happened to all that milk? Don't tell me you just dumped it down the drain._

 _So, forged handwriting is not one of your skills. I'd wondered why it never came up in one of our cases._

 _John"_

* * *

" **24** **th** **of February, 2010," said Sherlock as he sat at his microscope, looking at different slides. "No, I did not throw the milk out. I used it for some experiments, but most of the time, I drank it. Surprisingly filling." He turned his head to look at the camera. "You've always wondered how I can go days without food on a case, haven't you?" He smirked and looked back into his microscope. "As a detective, I've studied graphology—the science of handwriting analysis—but I've never had much use of forgery myself. After all, I am a consulting** _ **detective**_ **, not a consulting** _ **criminal**_ **." He lifted his head slightly in thought. "That does sound like a novel idea, though. Wonder if I'll ever find one…"**

 **He gave his head a shake after a moment and went back to his slides. "You're beginning to show real promise in your ability to put up with me as a flatmate and friend. You're starting to talk back, not letting me get away with—Oh!" His eyes lit up. "The gardener, of course!" He jumped out of his seat, rushed around the kitchen table and disappeared from frame.**

 **Two seconds later, his arm reappeared as he snatched the remote from the table, and the camera shut off.**

* * *

" _3/3/12_

 _Ah, the secret's finally out! How to sustain yourself during a murder case: abundant quantities of milk._

 _Oh, yeah. I learned long ago that you respect people for showing the backbone to stand up to you. Not to mention, I just don't let that kind of stuff slide._

 _Well, I finally got my practice. I was even able to keep the previous staff so no one had to look for a new job. Sorry my letters are always so short, but there's not much I can tell you without ruining your future._

 _John"_

* * *

" **11** **th** **of March, 2010," said Sherlock, lounging in his armchair in his sleep clothes and dressing gown and looking bored. "That's perfectly all right about the letters." He glanced towards the camera that must have been perched on the table in front of the sofa. An amused smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "I found ways to occupy myself." He looked back up at the ceiling. "You have exactly the kind of attitude a flatmate should have." He brought his head off the back of the chair to look at the camera. "Can you believe that not one of the people I've ever shared rooms with mentioned the things about me they had a problem with? They kept their silence and finally moved out when I 'refused to change my behavior.' How am I supposed to know to change it unless I'm told?" He let his head fall back on the chair again.**

 **The next moment, footsteps were heard, and Sherlock immediately sat up in his seat, glancing warily towards the door.**

" **You don't happen to have coffee going, do you?" asked John as he stepped into the room, rubbing his hand over his disheveled hair. "I feel like I've been asleep for days."**

 **Sherlock waved towards the kitchen. "In there."**

 **John turned and left for the kitchen, Sherlock's eyes watching him shrewdly. After a while, John returned and sat in his armchair across from Sherlock, grabbing the newspaper and glancing at the top. He frowned and looked up at Sherlock.**

" **It's Thursday?" asked John.**

" **Yes," said Sherlock, his whole body tensing in anticipation of something.**

 **John stared at him before shaking his head. "Wow." He rubbed a hand over his face. "I must be really out of it. I could have sworn yesterday was Tuesday." He went back to the paper.**

 **The tension left Sherlock as he stared at John. He then smirked and got to his feet, slipping the camera remote out of his dressing gown pocket to turn it off.**

* * *

" _13/3/12_

 _You cock. You drugged me, didn't you? I missed that whole Wednesday, and you never said a thing! You are so lucky I hadn't gotten a job yet._

 _So, you previous flatmates never said a word and just assumed you knew how you were supposed to act? Did they know you at all?_

 _John"_

* * *

" **15** **th** **of March, 2010," said Sherlock, pacing with his violin and bow in hand, apparently haven interrupted his playing with this rant. "So, you're saying it's normal to know what is and it not acceptable to the person you're sharing rooms with? That makes no sense. Each person has their own personality, habits, dislikes and pressure points. What's the point in memorizing a set of given rules if they have to be changed for each individual? What a waste of brain space!"**

* * *

" _19/3/12_

 _Oh, wow. This is all just making more and more sense. This is why you have no idea about manners and etiquette, isn't it? Because everyone's different, and you can't please everyone. Well, from now on, use me as a sounding board. Anytime you're not sure if something is acceptable, ask me._

 _John_

 _Oh, by the way, enjoy your next week."_

John put his pen down and glanced over at the calendar he had made to help him remember what was happening on Sherlock's side of things. Four days from now, their case known as "The Blind Banker" would start.


	14. Chapter 14

C13

 **So, so sorry I took so long. There was Christmas and then vacation to England for two weeks and then I got the flu that's been going around and then work got busier, so I haven't been able to write very often. (By the way, I got to visit the front door of 221B next to Speedy's cafe! So cool!)**

 **So, one of you mentioned in a comment that they were hoping the story wouldn't be a retelling of every episode, and I've been thinking about it, and I agree with them. I've had to rework this chapter. It was originally going to be parts of "The Great Game." There will be parts of the episodes, but no more retelling from Sherlock's point of view for entire episodes. I mean, we've seen the show. We don't need the episodes here.**

 **So, enjoy!**

* * *

 **27 March 2012**

" **The twenty-seventh of March 2010, 3:15 p.m.," said Sherlock as he paced the sitting room in excitement. "What a superb case! An ancient Chinese cipher, a code hidden in a book, a murderer who can 'walk through walls'! Excellent! A pity you were taken hostage, though, a situation you seem determined to avoid in the future." He waved his hand at John's laptop lying on the table.**

John smiled at the reminder of the blog post he had put out after the case of "The Blind Banker." He had posted pictures of himself and Sherlock, making it absolutely clear which was which so criminals would never confuse the two of them ever again and therefore kidnap John by mistake. Too bad it didn't work for Moriarty.

 **Sherlock snatched a can of spray paint from the coffee table, flipping it up into the air and catching it. "The Black Lotus, however, remains active. No doubt, though, they will think twice about their affairs in London. And when they return, I'll be waiting." He glanced over at the wallpaper above the sofa and then marched over and sprayed a yellow smiley face onto the wall. He then paused and turned to look at the camera. "I wonder if that just appeared on the wall in 2012." He tossed the can into the corner. "I envy you so much, John. Being able to experience all of this yourself while I'm stuck here in the past."**

John smiled a little at that. _Trust me. I wish you were here, too._

" **Without a case…" Sherlock went on. "Dull…"**

 **John suddenly stepped into the room, looking around and then frowning. "Who are you talking to?"**

Sherlock hesitated a moment before his brows shot up and his jaw dropped slightly; it was what John had come to realize as Sherlock's "I've got an idea" face.

 **Sherlock turned to face John, a frown on his face. "You."**

 **John smiled and shook his head, taking off his coat as he stepped out of frame towards the kitchen. "I've been at work all day."**

 **Sherlock looked down at the floor. "Oh."**

 **A chime sounded, and Sherlock moved over to his laptop, typing on it and then reading the screen.**

" **New case?" asked John, coming over to sit in his armchair.**

 **Sherlock straightened up. "Man in Belarus accused of stabbing his wife. All the evidence points to him, but he says he's not guilty."**

 **John shrugged as he grabbed a book from his side table. "Take it."**

" **It's a five!" Sherlock practically whined, turning towards him.**

" **A what?" asked John.**

" **A five," Sherlock told him. "On a scale of how interesting the case is and therefore how worth my time it is, this is a five."**

" **So?" said John. "It'll be a good chance to get out of the flat. You know how you get when you don't have a case." He opened his book and started reading.**

 **Sherlock stared at him a moment longer before gritting his teeth. "Fine." He turned back to his laptop and was silent for a while as he typed and searched, but he finally closed the laptop. "There. First flight available is tomorrow morning." He turned and marched into the kitchen.**

John closed the laptop and removed the flash drive, heading over to the fireplace and stabbing the knife through the ring into the mantelpiece. "So, that's why he never noticed when I left the flat." He chuckled and turned to head off to work.

* * *

 **28 March 2010**

Sherlock tromped up the stairs to his flat, heading through the sitting room to the fireplace and checking for a letter. There hadn't been one since last night, but there still wasn't one. He turned and rummaged through his carefully organized chaos in the corner behind his chair, pulling the video camera from its hiding place. He set it on the table, flipped it on and started recording.

"What a _waste_ of time," Sherlock spat out through clenched teeth as he paced away from the camera so that John could see him. "Flew all the way to Minsk for what was clearly a simple homicide. _How_ Berwick thought he was innocent is beyond me." He took his greatcoat off and hung it on the back of the door with his scarf. "Supposing an _actual_ case popped up while I was gone! I could have lost valuable time!"

He marched over to his laptop and opened it, typing in his password. Almost instantly, it sounded the alert he had put on John's blog at him, indicating a new blog post. Pulling up the website, he saw the new post for the day: "The Blind Banker."

Sherlock looked over at the camera with raised brows. "A Study in Pink? The Blind Banker? I had no idea you had such a whimsical side, John." He stared down at the blog, realizing that he had stopped reading the actual posts when John had moved in. And he was bored, so… "Brilliant." He smiled and clicked on "A Study in Pink."

 **I've blacked out a few names and places because of legal matters but, other than that, this is what happened on the night I moved in with Sherlock Holmes.**

 **When I first met Sherlock, he told me my life story. He could tell so much about me from my limp, my tan and my mobile phone. And that's the thing with him. It's no use trying to hide what you are because Sherlock sees right through everyone and everything in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.**

"Ignorant?" said Sherlock incredulously. " _Spectacularly_ ignorant?"

 **This morning, for example, he asked me who the Prime Minister was. Last week he seemed to genuinely not know the Earth goes round the Sun. Seriously. He didn't know. He didn't think the Sun went round the Earth or anything. He just didn't care. I still can't quite believe it. In so many ways, he's the cleverest person I've ever met but there are these blank spots that are almost terrifying.**

Sherlock looked up at the camera with a dark look. "Thanks, John. You've made me look like a complete idiot on the internet. Well done."

 **At least I've got used to him now. Well, I say that, I suspect I'll never really get used to him. It's just, on that first night, I literally had no idea of what was to come. I mean, how could I?**

 **I was looking at the flat, surprised at the state it was already in, when DI - from Scotland Yard burst in. Sherlock, of course, already knew why he was there. There'd been another death - this time, in -. Sherlock asked me to join him and I went along, intrigued. In the taxi, he explained how he'd deduced everything about me the previous day - how he'd picked up on every word I said, every action, tiny little things about my phone. It was extraordinary. I'd try to explain it here but I don't think I'd be able to do him justice. Go to his site,** **The Science of Deduction** **and see for yourself how his mind works.**

Sherlock cocked his head to the side in a shrug. "At least he's promoting my website." He looked up at the camera. "You may be of some use after all." He gave an amused grin to show John he was joking.

 **I was still surprised that, even being the genius he clearly is, the police would come to him for help. He said he was a 'consulting detective'. Naturally, being the arrogant so-and-so he is, he'd had to give himself his own unique job title.**

 **We arrived in - where, to my surprise, he introduced me as his colleague. The police seemed surprised by this as well. I get the impression he'd not had 'colleagues' before. It was a body of a woman, dressed in pink. And she'd been poisoned. Again, Sherlock just looked at her and he knew everything about her. The way she was dressed. Splatters of mud on her leg. What was there and, more importantly, what was missing. Her suitcase. And it was that which excited him. The missing pink suitcase.**

 **He left the body and ran outside to search for it, naturally leaving me behind. I spoke to a policewoman and she summed Sherlock up.**

"Really, John?" groaned Sherlock. "You're letting Donovan have her say on here?"

 **She said 'he gets off on it.' And he does. He didn't care about the dead woman or any of the other victims. I suspect if he came back and found me and our landlady lying here with our throats cut, he'd just see it as an intellectual exercise.**

Sherlock looked up at the camera. "That hurts, John. I would never be so blasé about yours or Mrs. Hudson's death."

 **'Fantastic' he'd exclaim, rubbing his hands together. 'But the door was locked so how did they kill each other?' The policewoman, she called him a psychopath. That seems harsh and it was hardly a professional diagnosis but I look back at what I wrote about him when I first met him. I called him the madman.**

 **So I went back to Baker Street and Sherlock asked me to send a text message. He'd found her suitcase and discovered that the victim's phone was missing. He knew the killer would have it, so there I was, texting a serial killer.**

 **He'd found the woman's missing suitcase because he'd known it would be pink, like the woman's clothes. It hadn't even crossed my mind and when I said this, he told me I was an idiot. He didn't mean to be offensive, he just said what he thought. I've been called worse things but his bluntness was still a bit of a surprise. He just didn't care about being polite or anything like that. I was starting to understand why he didn't seem to have many 'colleagues'.**

 **After that, we went on a stakeout. We waited in a restaurant to see if the killer would visit the address I'd texted him. Across the road, we saw a taxi pull up. We ran out, but it drove off. Sherlock insisted on chasing it and luckily he seemed to have an intimate knowledge of London's backstreets. Of course, as I realised afterwards, he's probably memorised the London A-Z. We ran down street after street and we managed to catch up with the taxi - only to discover that the passenger wasn't our killer. He'd only just arrived in the UK. It was the most ridiculous night of my life - I mean, an actual chase through London. People don't do that, not really. But we did.**

 **And, of course, by doing this, Sherlock proved my limp was psychosomatic. Did I mention he's clever?**

 **We returned to the flat to discover that - and the police were there, examining the suitcase. It was actually pretty funny seeing how offended Sherlock was by this. I genuinely think he believes himself to be above the law. And he couldn't stand the fact that - had got one over him. - described Sherlock as a child and, in many ways, that's what he is. I said that he doesn't care about what others think and that he's arrogant because of this but it's not really that. It's not that he doesn't care, it's that he genuinely doesn't understand that it's normal to care. It's normal to worry about what other people think. Like a child, he just doesn't understand the rules of society - which, of course, is probably why he's so good at working the rest of us out.**

 **Sherlock thinks everyone else is stupid so he's like a kid at Christmas when it turns out that one of us have done something clever. I'm not talking about me but our murder victim. She hadn't lost her phone. She hadn't left it behind. She knew she was going to die so she'd left her phone in the taxi - And, like all modern phones, it had a GPS system so you could locate it. That brilliant woman had led us to her killer.**

 **And he was outside. He was outside our flat - in his taxi! We'd chased him halfway across London, thinking he'd been driving the killer - but he was the killer himself. That was how he'd manage to get to his victims - just by picking them up in his cab. Of course, Sherlock being completely and utterly mad, got into the taxi so he could talk to him. Again, he wasn't interested in the 'rules'. He wasn't interested in how the driver had done all this. I don't think he was particularly interested in stopping him and it didn't even cross his mind to let the police know that the man they were looking for was outside. All Sherlock Holmes was interested in was discovering why the killer had done it. He wanted to be alone with the killer so he could question him. That was more important than anything else - despite the obvious threat to his own life.**

 **The taxi driver drove him to a college of further education so they could both educate each other on - well, on how their minds worked, I guess. It's not something I'll ever really understand and, to be honest, I'm not sure I ever want to understand it. To be that much of a psychopath. To be that above the rest of us. To be that dangerous. It's pretty terrifying.**

 **Afterwards, Sherlock told me what happened. The taxi driver had a brain aneurism. He was dying. He'd pick up his victims and take them somewhere. Then he'd give them a choice. Take one of two pills - one of which was harmless and one of which would kill them. Their only other choice was that he would shoot them. It makes me furious to think about those poor people who got into his taxi - one of them was just a kid! They must have gone through hell. But Sherlock, mad old Sherlock, he understood him. As for the taxi driver was concerned, he was outliving people. He was giving himself the power of life and death. And I do, I genuinely think Sherlock understood this.**

 **Myself and the police had managed to work out where they'd gone so we'd driven after them. But it was too late. By the time we got there, I could see that Sherlock was going to take one of the pills. It wasn't because he had to but because it was a game of wits. He wasn't going to let this other arrogant, pompous psychopath win. Which is when someone shot the taxi driver. Someone like that's bound to have enemies so it shouldn't have been a surprise but I hadn't seen anyone shot since Afghanistan. It's something you never really get used to. That someone could have the power of life and death over someone else - but I'm glad whoever it was did it, because they undoubtedly saved Sherlock's life. And, frankly, after everything that man had done to those innocent people who got into his car, a quick death like that was better than he deserved.**

Sherlock huffed out an annoyed breath. "You're lucky none of the police are clever enough to figure the truth out from this. It's so obvious that you were the one who shot him."

 **And after all that? Well, me and my flatmate went for a Chinese. Like I say, he really does know some great restaurants.**

 **There was one other thing though. Before the taxi driver died, he said a name. A name of someone or something that had helped him. Moriarty. I've never heard of it and neither has Sherlock. Of course, he loves it. He thinks he's found himself an arch-enemy. He's a strange child.**

 **And since that night? It hasn't stopped. Oh, there's so much more I've got to tell you.**

Sherlock sighed as he straightened up from the laptop. He then turned towards the camera. "Well…not bad, John, but you've missed everything of importance. My work is based on science and reasoning. You've turned it into a spectacle for adventure-seekers."

He bent back to the keyboard, typing up a comment to that effect and posting it. He then stepped over to the camera and shut it off, taking the memory card from the camera and putting it into the laptop. Saving the file to the flash drive, he removed the drive from the port, went over to the fireplace and stuck the knife into the key ring. He then headed into his bedroom and changed into some sleep clothes and a dressing gown.

Walking back out to the sitting room, he snatched his phone from the pocket of his Belstaff and checked it: still now new message, and therefore, no new cases. Groaning in frustration, he grabbed his violin and bow and began playing. Before long, though, the music grew monotonous, and he abandoned the violin.

Sherlock flopped down onto the sofa, his limbs sprawled over the side of it. He stared up at the ceiling, unable to think of anything to do. He had already run all the experiments he could with the specimens he had, and Molly hadn't gotten anything new in at the lab. Music was only useful when he was thinking—or trying to get rid of Mycroft; for some reason, the man seemed to almost hate the violin.

Sherlock's eyes slide over to the wall above him behind the sofa. The smiley face he had drawn yesterday in one of his more impish moments now seemed to mock him from its blank wall, void of any photos or case notes.

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock pushed himself from the sofa and marched over to the table, peering down at the keypad on John's gun safe. He focused on the numbers, trying to read the code from the slightly worn buttons.

Sherlock smirked after a moment. "Your date of enlistment, John? How predictable." He punched in the code and opened the door, pulling John's pistol and a loaded magazine from inside. He loaded the gun and readied it, turning and aiming at the smiley face.

 _BAM!_

 _BAM!_

Sherlock surveyed his handiwork, smirking slightly at the improvement. He glanced down at the gun, having already lost interest. "Oh, God…" He stepped over and fell down into his armchair, stretching his legs out in front of himself and closed his eyes.

A few moments later, he opened them and gazed up towards the ceiling. Sherlock turned his head to look towards the sofa, sighed, turned his head to the front again and then raised the pistol towards the smiley face, firing two shots at it. He turned his head to look at the face and fired a third shot to make a nose on the smiley face.

As he fired a fourth time, footsteps pounded up the stairs.

"What the hell are you doing?" John yelled from the doorway.

Sherlock looked over at him. "Bored."

John squinted at him in disbelief. "What?"

"Bored!" yelled Sherlock, springing up out of the chair.

John immediately recoiled and covered his ears with his hands. "No—"

Sherlock switched the pistol to his right hand and turned towards the smiley face, firing at it again. "Bored!" He then swung his arm around his back, twisted slightly to his right and fired at the wall from behind his back. "Bored!"

As he brought his arm back around, John hurried into the room, and Sherlock allowed John to snatch the pistol from his hand.

Sherlock walked towards the sofa. "Don't know what's got into the criminal classes. Good job I'm not one of them."

"So you take it out on the wall," said John.

Sherlock ran his fingers along the painted smile. "Ah, the wall had it coming." He turned sideways and flopped down onto the sofa on his back.

"What about that Russian case?"

Sherlock pushed himself into a slightly more upright position. "Belarus. Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time."

"Ah, shame!" said John, walking into the kitchen. "Anything in? I'm starving. Oh, f—" He was quiet for a moment as Sherlock listened to him opening and closing the fridge door. "It's a head." He called out. "A severed head!"

"Just tea for me, thanks," said Sherlock.

John walked back into the living room. "No, there's a head in the fridge."

"Yes," said Sherlock calmly.

"A bloody head!" yelled John.

"Well, where else was I supposed to put it?" Sherlock looked round at John. "You don't mind, do you? I got it from Bart's morgue. I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death." He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of his laptop. "I see you've written up the taxi driver case."

"Uh, yes," said John, walking over to Sherlock's armchair and sitting down.

"'A Study in Pink.' Nice."

"Well, you know, pink lady, pink case, pink phone; there was a lot of pink. Did you like it?"

Sherlock had picked up a magazine from the coffee table, and he now flipped it open and addressed his answer to the pages. "Erm, no."

"Why not? I thought you'd be flattered."

Sherlock lowered the magazine and glared at him. "Flattered?" He raised his index fingers and narrated a section of the blog. "'Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.'"

"Now, hang on a minute. I didn't mean that in a—"

"Oh, you meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a nice way," Sherlock interrupted. "Look, it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister…"

"I know…"

"…or who's sleeping with who…"

"Whether the Earth goes round the sun…" said John softly.

"Not that again. It's not _important_."

"Not impor—" John shifted his position in the chair to face Sherlock. "It's primary school stuff. How can you not know that?"

Sherlock pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. "Well, if I ever did, I've deleted it."

"'Deleted it'?"

Sherlock swung his legs around to the floor and sat up to face John. "Listen." He pointed to his head with one finger. "This is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful, _really_ useful." He grimaced. "Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?"

John looked at him for a moment, trying to bite his lip, but then couldn't contain himself. "But it's the solar system!"

Sherlock briefly buried his head in his hands. "Oh, hell! What does that matter?!" He looked at John in frustration. "So we go round the sun! If we went round the moon, or round and round the garden like a teddy bear—" he flailed his hands around beside his head, "—it wouldn't make any difference. All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots." He ruffled his hair with both hands and then glared at John. "Put _that_ in your blog. Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world." Petulantly shoving the magazine across the coffee table, he lay down on the sofa again, turning over with his back to John and pulling his dressing gown around him while curling up into a ball.

After a moment, Sherlock heard footsteps, and he turned to see John heading for the door. "Where are you going?"

John put on his jacket, speaking tightly. "Out. I need some air." He headed for the stairs. "'Scuse me, Mrs.—"

"Oh, sorry, love!" said Mrs. Hudson from the staircase.

"Sorry," said John.

Angrily, Sherlock turned his face away again, pulling the cushion under his head nearer to the back of the sofa and curling up even tighter.

A knock came at the door. "Ooh-ooh!"

Sherlock stretched his legs out straight and turned his head enough to acknowledge her existence but then looked away again.

"Have you two had a little domestic?" asked Mrs. Hudson.

Flailing to get himself upright, Sherlock stood up off the sofa and walked over the coffee table, going to the left-hand window.

"Ooh, it's a bit nippy out there," said Mrs. Hudson. "He should have wrapped himself up a bit more."

Sherlock watched John as he crossed the street and headed in the general direction of away. "Look at that, Mrs. Hudson." He scanned the street. "Quiet, calm, peaceful." He grimaced and dragged in a long breath. "Isn't it _hateful_?"

"Oh, I'm sure something'll turn up, Sherlock," said Mrs. Hudson. "A nice murder—that'll cheer you up." She chuckled slightly.

"Can't come too soon," said Sherlock wistfully.

Mrs. Hudson stopped on her way out. "Hey. What've you done to my bloody wall?!"

Sherlock quirked a smile and turned around to admire his handiwork.

"I'm putting this on your rent, young man!" said Mrs. Hudson angrily, storming off down the stairs.

Sherlock grinned over-dramatically at the bullet-riddled smiley face and then sighed and turned his head to the door just as a massive explosion went off in the street behind him. The windows blew in, and the blast hurled him forward and to the floor.

Sherlock groaned as his ears rang, blocking out all other noise. He lay on his stomach for a moment, taking stock of his body, and other than a few stinging spots on his back and arms—which were most likely small lacerations caused by the exploding windows, he had no injuries. He slowly lifted his head, shaking the glass from his hair, and pushed himself up while avoiding the glass on the floor.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up to see a worried Mrs. Hudson crouched in front of him. She was speaking, but all Sherlock could hear past the ringing were muffled words that he couldn't make out. Sherlock raised a hand to his ear and shook his head. Mrs. Hudson nodded and held her hand out to him, clearly telling him to stay put. She got up and headed off towards his room.

Sherlock pushed himself up, sitting back on his heels but not moving any further. He turned his torso to look over at the broken windows. The curtains hanging down the sides were swaying in the stray breeze, only slightly tattered from the explosion. There weren't yet any flashing police lights, but they wouldn't be long. He started to stand to go see the damage in the street when he looked down at his bare feet, surrounded by shards of glass.

A touch to his shoulder, and Sherlock looked up at Mrs. Hudson, who had returned with a pair of trainers from the back of his closet. Sherlock nodded his thanks and quickly put the shoes on, hurrying over to the window. The bottom two floors directly across the street had been blown open and were still burning. As he watched, red and blue blights appeared on the building and grew brighter as a fire engine pulled up.

Sherlock turned towards Mrs. Hudson, trying to keep the volume of his voice at a normal decibel. "Are you all right?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded and gestured towards the stairs outside the flat to indicate she had been there at the time. She then pointed at him.

Sherlock nodded. "A few cuts from the glass, but that's all."

Mrs. Hudson's brows drew together as she held her hand out towards him. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock allowed her to lead him into the kitchen to treat him. He glanced back at the glass-strewn sitting room and empty window frames.

 _A little warning would've been nice, John._


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fourteen

 **28 March 2012**

" **Well…not bad, John, but you've missed everything of importance. My work is based on science and reasoning. You've turned it into a spectacle for adventure-seekers."**

John smiled as he watched Sherlock type on his laptop before marching over and switching off the camera. John pulled the flash drive from the computer and went over to the table, pulling the pad of paper over.

" _28/3/12_

 _Sherlock,_

 _Yeah, I know, I'm a sentimental romantic. But that's how the majority of the public thinks. I can't write these things tailored to your tastes. No one would read it, and those that would wouldn't really understand it. To put it in a way you would appreciate, I have to translate your mind and personality into idiot-speak. Don't be afraid to be blunt like that with me, though. I may get frustrated or upset at you, but trust me, it never lasts. Besides, I know it's just you being you._

 _I wouldn't be so envious of me, though. There's not much going on here. At least_ _ **you**_ _get to go on cases. Me, I'm stuck here going to work every day waiting for you to get back here (and, no, I'm not going to tell you where you are)."_

John glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece and then checked the time against the timeline he had written out. He smirked and then went back to the letter.

" _By the way, sorry I couldn't give you a heads-up about the bomb. I'm trying not to break history here._

 _John"_

He folded the letter and walked to the mantel, stabbing it in place.

"You have a case?"

John jumped a little and exhaled slightly as he turned towards the door; he hadn't even heard her come up the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson, hi. What did you say?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded at the mantelpiece. "You're taking a case?"

John glanced back at the letter, placed where Sherlock always claimed to store requests and information for his cases. He smiled as he looked back at his landlady. "In a manner of speaking."

Mrs. Hudson gave him a sympathetic frown. "I know. I miss him, too."

John didn't know what to say to this, so he just nodded and looked down at the floor.

"If only we had known how much he was going through…" said Mrs. Hudson.

John nodded vaguely, struck once again by his dilemma of whether or not to tell Mrs. Hudson how Sherlock had _really_ died. Which was worse: to believe had had killed himself or to know that he had planned it all—had done it to save them—just to be thwarted by Moriarty all over again. Well, a better question would be: which would make more sense if this worked and Sherlock were to turn up one day? If Mrs. Hudson knew Sherlock had tried to fake the whole thing but had died from an embolism, Sherlock showing up alive would be very confusing indeed. If all she knew was that Sherlock jumped to his supposed death, the whole "he faked it" would be more believable.

However…

"Actually…" John began, trying to keep himself in an appearance of grief appropriate for the conversation, "I know exactly why he did it."

"You do?" asked Mrs. Hudson with a frown.

John nodded, pausing for a moment before looking up at her. "He did it for us."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head slightly, frown still in place.

"Mycroft told me everything," said John. "Moriarty met him up on that roof. He wanted Sherlock to kill himself to make the story of him being a fraud complete. And to force him into it…he threatened us. And Lestrade. Apparently, there were snipers on the three of us that day." He paused, allowing the tears that had surprisingly sprung up at this topic to fill his eyes. "Sherlock jumped to save our lives."

Mrs. Hudson's hand went to her mouth as tears filled her eyes. John stepped over and embraced her as she cried.

"They said such horrible things about him…" sobbed Mrs. Hudson.

"I know," John told her quietly.

"They were so wrong…" said Mrs. Hudson. "He proved them wrong."

John nodded. "Yeah, he did."

"We have to tell people," said Mrs. Hudson, pulling back so she could look at John. "They have to know the kind of man he was."

"Don't worry," John told her with a smile. "Something tells me Sherlock's memory won't rest until the truth comes out."

And, sure enough, it didn't rest. As Sherlock got introduced to Moriarty and his game in 2010, Mycroft finally had his people leak security footage from the roof showing Sherlock's final encounter with Moriarty. The video went viral, and there was a public uproar, prompting Scotland Yard to reinvestigate Sherlock's case, a task that Lestrade took up with gusto.

Reporters had taken to congregating outside Baker Street once more, eager to hear from the man who had never wavered in his position as Sherlock Holmes' loyal companion. John had refused comment and instead posted an entry on his blog, talking of his belief in Sherlock and his satisfaction that the truth had finally won out.

John had seen Donovan and Anderson exactly once since the footage leaked onto the internet. He had visited Greg's office and had passed them on his way back out. Anderson refused to meet his eyes, but Donovan stared at him with an expression John had never seen on her face: regret.

John had stopped and stood for a moment, debating whether to go through with it or not. In the end, he had decided that Donovan had not looked nearly guilty enough.

He had turned back towards them as they had begun to turn back to their desks. "You know what? You were right, Donovan."

Donovan and Anderson had looked up at him.

"'One day, we'll be standing round a body, and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one who put it there,'" John had quoted her own words back to her.

Donovan's face had paled in that instant.

John had shrugged, setting his jaw. "The first thing about him you ever got right. Well done."

He had enjoyed the look of utter shame and distress on her face as he had turned and marched out of the building. Normally, John wasn't this vindictive with people, but in this case, she had deserved it. If it wasn't for her and Anderson pushing the police to convict Sherlock for the criminal they had always suspected him to be, the truth about Moriarty might have gotten out before he could exact his final plan and Sherlock might still be alive. Even if John ended up bringing him back, Donovan had still needed to learn her lesson.

* * *

" **2** **nd** **of April, 2010," Sherlock said as he reclined on the sofa, a dressing gown over his shirt and trousers. "We've just met Moriarty." He looked at the camera. "Are you sure there's nothing you can tell me about where he's run off to or what his plans are?" He sighed and looked back up at the ceiling. "By the way, did I ever properly thank you for your willingness to sacrifice yourself to save me? I probably never did." He stared at the ceiling for a while before sitting up and looking into the camera. "Does Moriarty have anything to do with why I'm not at Baker Street in the future?" He closed his eyes after a moment. "Not that you'll answer that."**

 **He stood and started pacing. "He mentioned that he was going to kill me one day, that he wanted to enjoy it. However, you don't speak as one conversing with his dead friend but as one talking to a friend he hasn't seen in a long time. But what could have happened that would drive us apart? A man who would willingly throw himself on a bomb for me suddenly doesn't want to be friends anymore? That makes no sense. It has to be something else. But what?"**

 **He then looked at the camera. "I know, I know. Eleven months to go. I don't think I can wait that long, John. I've never had an unsolved mystery that lasted that long before." He shrugged. "Except Carl Powers."**

" **What about Carl Powers?" asked Lestrade as he stepped into the room from the stairwell.**

 **Sherlock's jaw clenched as he turned towards the inspector. "Don't you people ever knock?"**

" **You leave the door wide open," Lestrade pointed out. "Carl Powers?"**

" **Just going back over the case," Sherlock told him. "I do that after big cases."**

" **Right," said Lestrade with a nod. "You waiting for the last pip, or do you have time for a case?" He held up the file in his hand.**

 **Sherlock immediately snatched the file from him, opening it to peruse. "Solved the final pip. Game over."**

" **Really?" asked Greg. "You find out what the point of it all was?"**

" **He wanted to meet me," Sherlock explained without looking up from the file. "Told me to back off."**

" **Who?" asked Lestrade.**

" **Moriarty," Sherlock answered.**

" **Moriarty?" asked Lestrade. "The guy behind the fake painting? He arranged all of this? Who is he?"**

" **Consulting criminal," said Sherlock.**

" **You can't be serious," said Lestrade.**

" **I am," said Sherlock, closing the file. "Excellent." He handed the file back. "I'll following momentarily." He strode to the door, tossing his dressing gown onto his chair.**

" **What, just you?" asked Lestrade, turning around towards him.**

 **Sherlock grabbed his coat, putting it on. "Let him sleep. He's had a bit too much excitement for one night, what with being taken hostage and forced into a bomb vest." He snatched his scarf and disappeared out the door.**

 **Lestrade's brows shot up. "John was the last pip?" He hurried after Sherlock.**

* * *

 **8 April 2010**

" _6/4/12_

 _No, sorry, can't tell you anything. Honestly, I don't know where he disappeared to after the pool. Don't worry. You'll get on his track again._

 _Wow, eleven months. I can't believe it's already less than a year before this all comes to a head. So far, none of my memories or blog entries have changed, so you're doing very well keeping the past intact._

 _John"_

Sherlock folded the letter back up and tossed it into the fire, watching it burn before moving to his laptop to look at his email. Most of it was rubbish or boring, but one looked promising.

" **Mr. Holmes,**

 **I run a restaurant supply business—ovens, microwaves, utensils—and have gotten complaints from my customers in the past few weeks about the products having already been used. I purchase my items brand new and sell them as such, but my customers tell me there are bits of food in the ovens and other appliances. I have purchased face recognition software for my CCTV, but no alarms have been set off. My night guard says he hasn't seen anything, and it's definitely not him.**

 **I'm not sure how my equipment is being ruined before it even leaves the warehouse. Could you please help me?**

 **Roger Evans"**

 _Face recognition that sends no alarms…_

"John!" Sherlock called, slapping the laptop closed.

"Yeah?" asked John as he stepped into the doorway that led to the kitchen.

"We have a case!" Sherlock told him. "A seven, at least!" He grabbed his coat and scarf from the door.

John immediately moved back to the kitchen, turning off the kettle as he filled a glass with water and moved to the sitting room, dowsing the flames in the fireplace.

Sherlock was already out the door and heading down the stairs. "John!"

After they had gotten into the cab, John looked over at him. "What's the case?"

"Roger Evans has had someone using the restaurant equipment in his warehouse before it can be sold," Sherlock explained. "However, his face recognition software has detected no one but the night guard."

"So, it has to be him," said John.

"It has to be," said Sherlock.

"But?" asked John.

Sherlock looked over at him in curiosity.

"Well, you wouldn't be headed all the way there if it was that easy," said John with a slight shrug.

Sherlock smirked and looked back out the window. "Evans swears emphatically that the guard is not the guilty party. Either he's checked the surveillance footage and has discovered nothing untoward in regards to him, or he's had him investigated. Which means…" He trailed off, waiting for John to catch up.

"Someone's getting in without triggering the software," John finished.

"And unless this person looks exactly like the guard—statistically unlikely—we have a mystery on our hands," said Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock stepped into the main lobby of the Premiere Restaurant Supply, holding the door open behind him for John. As the two of them stepped into the store, a young woman stepped out from behind the counter and walked towards them.

"How can I help you gentlemen today?" she asked, clasping her hands in front of her and giving them a warm smile.

"We're here to see Mr. Evans," said Sherlock, watching her eyes closely.

"Sure," the woman replied. "Can I tell him what this in regards to?"

"He contacted us," Sherlock told her. "Sherlock Holmes and John Watson." He gestured at John.

The woman nodded. "All right, one moment." She turned and headed towards the back of the store.

"She didn't seem worried," John muttered.

"No," Sherlock agreed as his eyes roamed over the store. "No fidgeting of the eyes, her smile never wavered, and she didn't hesitate. She believes this to be ordinary store business." He turned, his eyes searching for clues at the door.

John stuck his elbow out and caught him in the arm. "Hey."

Sherlock immediately turned back around as the woman came back into the room with a man in trousers and dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

"Mr. Holmes," said Roger Evans, reaching forward to shake Sherlock's hand. "Thanks for coming." He turned to shake John's hand. "Dr. Watson."

"Hi," John greeted him as they released hands.

"Shall we?" said Evans, holding his arm out towards the back office. He turned and led them back.

"Start from the beginning," said Sherlock when the door of the office had been closed behind them.

Mr. Evans took a seat at his desk as they sat across from him. "About three months ago, I started getting calls from my customers. They said there were bits of food in the ovens, microwaves, fryers. I went out and inspected the items in my warehouse. There were a few of them that had food bits in them, but the rest were untouched. Thankfully, they were perfectly happy to exchange the products for clean ones. I cleaned all the affected appliances and assumed that would be it.

"The week after that, I started getting calls again. I inspected the warehouse, and there were the food bits again. I asked Sam—the night guard—if he'd seen anything. He hadn't."

"And how long has he worked for you?" asked Sherlock.

"Almost two years now," said Evans.

Sherlock nodded. "Go on."

"I installed the face recognition software and programmed it to activate when the store closed and turn off when it opened," Evans continued. "It has only sent alarms to my mobile on three occasions since. Twice, it was a late customer that held up closing time, and the other was Sam ordering some Chinese for delivery."

"And you're positive it's not Sam," Sherlock stated.

Evans nodded. "I had a cop friend stake out the building. He said Sam stayed up at the front pretty frequently. He wouldn't have been gone long enough to damage the appliances."

Sherlock nodded. "Show me the warehouse."

* * *

Evans led them through the warehouse of restaurant appliances, furniture and supplies behind the main store. He stopped at a row of industrial ovens and stoves. "Here. These are the ones that are always dirty when I check."

"Always these same units?" asked Sherlock.

Evans nodded.

"Have you cleaned these since the last incident?" asked Sherlock.

"No," said Evans.

Sherlock took a step up to the nearest oven, opening it and nearly sticking his head inside to get a closer look. There were dark brown—almost black—pieces of something on the bottom. Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out his small kit, retrieving the set of tweezers. Picking up one of the pieces, he turned it over and then sniffed it.

 _Cooked several times. Multiple uses in one night._

Sherlock closed that oven door and went to the others, finding the same in each. He looked across to the line of stoves on the other side of the aisle. He glanced at the ovens and then back to the stoves.

 _If one were cooking here, the stovetops would make perfect counters._

He moved over to the stoves and bent over the first, searching the burners and surrounding surfaces. At last, on the third one, he spotted a crusted bit of something white next to one of the burners. Swiping it up with his fingers, he took a few sniffs, catching the scent of vanilla. Licking it off his finger, he recognized the taste and texture.

 _Icing. Someone's been running a bakery._

Sherlock looked back at the other men. "Your electric bill has increased in the last three months, yes?"

Evans nodded. "Yes."

Sherlock turned and looked up towards the ceiling, narrowing in on the CCTV cameras; they were only monitoring the entrances. His eyes fell on a rubbish bin in the corner, which seemed to have a bag loosely tied around the top. He headed across the warehouse to look, and sure enough, it was a new bag.

Sherlock hurriedly turned towards Evans. "When is your trash collected?"

"Should be sometime today," Evans told him.

Sherlock immediately ran to the back door, tearing through it. He looked over to one side of the alley and saw the skip situated next to the building. He ran over to it and flipped the lid up. Trash bags were piled inside.

 _Excellent!_

Sherlock pushed the lid against the wall so that it would stay open and immediately began stripping off his coat.

"You're seriously going in there?" asked John from next to him.

"Need data, John!" Sherlock told him, flinging his coat at him. He ripped his scarf off and tossed it at John, rolling his sleeves up.

He pulled himself up onto the edge of the skip and flung his legs over it, landing on the bags. He pulled a few of the top bags away, looking for one large enough for the bin inside, and spotted a small roll of paper. Pushing the bags to the side, he grabbed the roll and turned it over. It was a roll of stickers—the kind you would put as a label on a box—that said "Tree Brothers."

Sherlock's gaze slid up into the skip beyond the roll in his hands as a thought occurred to him.

 _Old roll or typo?_

He looked back at the roll to the bottom of the label, where a date was printed in a small font: 2010.

 _Typo,_ thought Sherlock, smirking. _Oh, that's brilliant!_

"What's brilliant?" asked John.

Realizing he had said that last sentence out loud, Sherlock turned and jumped down from the skip, rolls of labels in hand. "Mr. Evans, if you would permit me to stay behind in the warehouse after you close up tonight, I'll be able to put this case to rest."

Evans nodded. "Of course, yes."

"I believe I saw a room at the back," said Sherlock, rolling his sleeves back down. "An office?"

"A storage room," Evans corrected. "I keep the old records in there."

"Does Sam have access to this room?" asked Sherlock.

"Of course not," Evans replied. "Only myself."

"Excellent," said Sherlock, grabbing his coat and scarf from John. "What time does Sam come on duty?"

"Six o'clock," Evans answered.

"John and I will be here at 5:30," Sherlock told him. "We'll need access to the records room. Tell no one we are there."

"Right," said Evans with a slight frown.

Sherlock led the way back through the warehouse and into the store, putting his coat and scarf back on. After Evans had bid them goodbye and they had hailed a cab, John looked over at him in curiosity.

"Did you solve it already?" he asked.

"Possibly," said Sherlock. "I'd prefer not to say just yet. Besides," he glanced over at John with a smile, "I'd hate to ruin the surprise."

John shook his head, looking back out the window and muttering, "Drama queen."

* * *

Sherlock and John sat on the floor of the records room, out of sight due to the windows at head-level.

"What time is it?" asked John.

"Almost eight," said Sherlock at the wall next to him, his head tilted back against it.

"Are you planning to tell me _anything_ about the case?" asked John.

"No," said Sherlock.

John rolled his eyes. "Course not."

"Shh," said Sherlock, his head coming away from the wall.

Voices had started up in the warehouse. Sherlock and John got onto their feet, bending low so their heads just barely appeared at the bottom of the windows.

The night guard Sam had entered the warehouse, carrying a few boxes in his arms. He set them down on the floor next to the aisle of ovens and stoves and went back to the door. Almost as soon as he disappeared through the door, he was back, carrying more boxes to the aisle.

"That was impossibly fast," muttered John.

Sherlock smirked at John's inability to see it.

Just as Sam placed the boxes on the floor, a second Sam, also in a guard's uniform entered the room with a box.

John's eyes widened. "Another? Twins?"

"Wait for it," Sherlock told him.

A third Sam—also in uniform—walked in, joining them at the stoves.

"Triplets?" exclaimed John.

"Yes," said Sherlock. "Genius, isn't it? The software never alerted Evans because the brothers share the same face. And, of course, the officer that staked out the place saw Sam—or what he assumed was Sam—often enough to conclude he wasn't the one damaging the equipment."

"How did you know?" asked John.

Sherlock pulled the roll of labels from his pocket and handed them to John.

"'Tree Brothers'?" asked John.

"A typo," Sherlock explained. "That's why they were thrown out."

"Three Brothers…" muttered John, shaking his head. He looked over at Sherlock. "It's never twins, huh?"

"And it still isn't," Sherlock defended himself.

One of the triplets—most likely Same—went back to the door of the store. The other two started up the ovens, unpacking the boxes.

"I think it's time to interrupt, don't you?" asked Sherlock, moving towards the door.

* * *

 **The case at the end was one I had seen on an undercover show. The owner really had used face recognition software, which didn't go off because it was triplets. When I saw the episode, I immediately thought it would make an awesome case.**


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Fifteen

 **28 April 2012**

John filled out the last note in his patient's chart and flipped it closed, breathing out an exhausted breath as he leaned back in his chair. It had been a very long day, all thanks to Sherlock. This week, the investigation had concluded, and Sherlock was cleared of all charges. And due to John's proximity to Sherlock's fame, patients had flocked to his office. Over half of them had no real medical problems. After the third "patient" to show no signs of illness or injury and to stammer out answers or even evade questions about their symptoms, John marched into the waiting room teeming with people.

"Anyone else who does not have a legitimate medical condition, illness, injury _or_ inquiry and is here purely because of my blog or Sherlock Holmes, I will be prescribing a colonoscopy!" John barked out.

About twenty to thirty people immediately stood and made their way out the door, leaving eleven people sitting in the room. Almost all of them had wide eyes, most had amused smirks on their faces and one woman was staring at him with her jaw hanging open.

John cleared his throat, allowing his shoulders to drop and his face to relax from its glare. "My apologies about that. Some people have no respect for others." He looked over at his receptionist. "Call in the next patient please."

The nurse, Holly, smiled and nodded as he went back into his office.

After that, Holly apparently started a harsher screening process, and he only had one or two more fakers throughout the day.

"Dr. Watson."

John turned to see Holly at his door. "Holly."

"I just wanted to let you know that I have just hired my replacement, and she will start training tomorrow," Holly told him as she walked a little further into the room. "She's in the waiting area, if you would like to meet her."

"Sure," John replied. "Let me just wrap things up for the day, and I'll be right out."

Holly headed back out the door towards her desk as John placed his patient files into the file cabinet. He shut down his computer, locked the file cabinet and pocketed the keys. He grabbed his coat and pulled it on, throwing the scarf around his neck and making his way to the door. Locking it, he headed out towards the front desk, where Holly stood waiting.

"Mary," Holly called.

John glanced over and saw a woman with short blonde hair stand from one of the waiting room chairs. John found that he couldn't stop staring at her; she was so beautiful.

"Dr. Watson," Holly introduced, "this is Mary Morstan."

John held out his hand as Mary approached. "John Watson. Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Morstan."

Mary shook his hand. "Oh, please. Mary."

"Mary," said John with a smile.

* * *

 **Sherlock took a seat on the sofa to face the camera. "21** **st** **of May 2010, 5:12 p.m. I know that you've requested I tell you about cases you didn't participate in, and I haven't held up my end of the bargain. There aren't many cases that you either weren't a part of or I didn't tell you about. However, there was one a few weeks ago where you were visiting your parents that I have not gotten around to telling you yet. I refuse to give it a name—as you seem determined to do—so, I'll just jump right in.**

" **I'm sure you remember the news stories of children being kidnapped throughout London…"**

* * *

 **5 May 2010**

Sherlock walked along Bridge Place on his way to the nearest tube station, opting out of a cab ride in order to give himself time to think.

Nine children had gone missing in the past week—three from Kensington, two from Whitechapel, two from Lambeth, one from Battersea and one from Mayfair. There was no pattern and nothing that connected them other than the primary schools they attended and had disappeared from. By the time the police had seen the pattern and put guards on the schools, the kidnappers had moved on to another. Scotland Yard had finally pulled Sherlock in after the eighth kidnapping, but he had been unable to find anything so far. The schools had been spread out enough that it appeared the kidnappers wanted to keep the crime scenes far apart. But then, they had come to Mayfair, which wasn't far from Lambeth.

 _They're getting arrogant,_ Sherlock thought, excited.

When criminals started getting arrogant, _that_ was when they made mistakes. He just hoped they made it before anything happened to the children.

Sherlock's steps halted, and he discreetly stepped into the shadow of a doorway, looking over across the street at what had grabbed his attention. A man in a decent pair of jeans, a button-down black shirt and waist-length gray wool coat had exited the HM Passport Office with a thick envelope in hand, and he had paused on the top step to open it. He was pulling several passports out and looking at them before putting them back in and descending the steps.

Sherlock stepped towards the street as the man headed towards a car parked along the kerb and got in. As the car started up and pulled into traffic, Sherlock raised his hand for an approaching taxi, fishing Lestrade's ID from his wallet.

He jumped into the cab, flashing the ID. "Follow that black car."

* * *

 **2012**

" **I knew he had to be up to something," said Sherlock as he lay on the sofa, hands steepled above his chest as he addressed the ceiling. "No one picks up other people's passports for them, and it was very unlikely that he had a family of that size. There were nine passports, John." He turned his head to look at the camera. "Nine missing children."**

* * *

 **2010**

Sherlock tossed some money through the passenger window of the taxi and hurried over to a bus stop close by, leaning against it and pulling his phone out to make it look like he was waiting for his bus. He glanced up out of the corner of his eyes at the man as he walked from his car down the pavement a bit to head inside a deli.

Sherlock immediately darted over to the black car, pulling his seldom-used lockpick set out to open the driver's door. As the alarm began blaring, Sherlock quickly shoved his arm up under the dash and yanked the necessary wires out, silencing the alarm. He glanced up through the window of the open driver door to check that the man hadn't come out of the shop. He hadn't. Sherlock pulled the trunk release latch and hurried around to it, pushing it up and staring down into the boot.

A young girl of about five years old lay in the boot, staring up at him in fear through her messy blonde hair. Sherlock glanced up to check the front of the deli and then squatted down onto his heels to put himself on the same level as the girl. She whimpered and drew away from him.

"It's all right," Sherlock told her gently. "I'm not going to hurt you. I work with the police."

The girl—Sherlock recognized her from the case photographs: Haley Raines—stayed put, staring at him warily.

"You're Haley, right?" Sherlock asked, hoping the man got held up in the deli. "Haley Raines?"

The girl's head lifted slightly.

Sherlock gave her a warm smile. "My name is Sherlock Holmes. Your parents have been very worried about you."

Haley watched him carefully for a moment before speaking. "I wanna go home."

Sherlock nodded. "I know. I'm going to get you home. But I need you to be brave for me. Can you do that?" He held out his arms a little, waiting for her to move.

Haley looked down at his arms, hesitating.

"The man that took you is never going to get you ever again," Sherlock told him. "I am never going to leave you until we get to your parents. I promise."

Haley hesitated a moment longer before darting forward and throwing herself into his arms. Sherlock held her tightly for a moment before looking up at the deli. The man was still gone.

"Hold on to me," Sherlock told her. "I'm going to get you out of here."

Haley's grip around his neck tightened as Sherlock situated her legs on either side of his torso. He shifted her weight to his left arm and adjusted the left side of his coat to wrap around her back. He stood and closed the boot with his right arm, hurrying back to the driver door and locking it before closing it. He hurried over to an alley a block away from the deli and pulled his phone out.

"I'm going to call the police, all right?" Sherlock told Haley. "They'll come take that man away forever."

Haley stayed silent while Sherlock made the call, and then Sherlock put his phone away, wrapping his other arm around her as she shook.

"It's all right," Sherlock soothed her. Or, at least, he hoped he was soothing her. He had no experience with children, and more often than not, they made him uncomfortable. "You're safe now." He hesitated a moment. "But I need you to be brave for me again. There are other children who were taken from their mommy and daddy. Do you remember where they took you?"

Haley was still for a long moment. Finally, she nodded against Sherlock's chest.

"The other children ware there," Sherlock told her. "Little boys and girls who are scared and want to go home, just like you. Can you tell me where?"

Haley hesitated a while before pulling back slightly and looking up at him with tear-filled eyes. She nodded.

* * *

 **2012**

" **I stayed long enough to make sure the kidnapper wouldn't get away, and then I headed off to where the girl mentioned she had been kept," Sherlock said as he sat facing the camera. "I wanted to get there as soon as possible should there be accomplices who would get uneasy with their colleague's absence."**

* * *

 **2010**

Sherlock looked up at the house in front of him. By all accounts, it looked like a normal home to a nice, loving family. The girl, however, took one look at it and hid her face in Sherlock's neck, shaking.

Sherlock placed a hand on her head. "I know you're scared. But you will leave this place again. I promise you. Do you trust me?"

Haley nodded after a moment.

"You are a very brave little girl," Sherlock told her.

He moved up to the house, finding the front door unlocked. Pushing it silently open, he slipped inside, looking around to make sure no one was around. He eased the door closed and slid over to the corner.

"Upstairs or down?" Sherlock whispered.

"Up," Haley murmured.

Sherlock hurried up the stairs, checking around the corner before heading into the hallway. He looked down at the girl, who pointed towards a door at the end of the hall, which was closed with a padlock on it. He moved to the door and knelt in front of it, setting the girl down next to him but keeping a firm hold on her hand.

"I'm going to need both hands," Sherlock told her. "Hang onto my arm."

Haley released his hand and immediately wrapped both arms around his upper arm. He picked the lock after a few moments and took Haley's hand as he opened the door. Inside the small, empty room were the eight other missing children.

"It's all right," Sherlock told the terrified children huddled in the corner. "I'm with—"

He only had a brief moment of warning as the children screamed before something was wrapped around his throat. Haley's hand ripped away from his, and Sherlock had a brief moment to be thankful that he had not been the one to let go first before he grabbed onto the thing around his throat—a wide leather thing, probably a belt—and pulled. The pressure eased from his throat as he worked his fingers between his trachea and the belt, and he brought his foot backwards, making contact with one of his attacker's legs.

As the pressure of the belt eased slightly, Sherlock took one of his hands from it and brought his elbow back, driving it into the man's gut. The man yelled, and Sherlock yanked the belt from his loosened grip, tossing it to the floor. He turned as the man swung a punch, catching Sherlock across the jaw. Sherlock let his body turn with the momentum, and his leg caught the other man's leg from behind, knocking it out from under him.

The man fell back against the open door, and Sherlock turned, slamming the man's head against the door. He grabbed hold of the man's neck, holding him against the door.

"Other than the man picking up the passports, is there anyone else involved in your operation?" Sherlock asked him.

The man struggled against him.

Sherlock tightened his grip, pressing onto his throat. "Is there?"

The man winced as he spluttered at the pressure on his throat. "No. No one."

Sherlock brought the man forward and slammed his head back against the door, knocking him out. He checked the man's pulse and then pulled the belt over, tying it tightly around his wrists and then his ankles, leaving the man bent at the waist.

He turned on his knees towards the children to see them staring at him with wide eyes. "It's all right. You're all going to go home now."

Haley jumped up and ran to him, hurling herself into his arms. Sherlock stood up, holding her close to him. Haley's display of familiarity with him seemed to bolster the courage of the other children, and they all ran towards him, gathering around him and clinging to his coat.

"All right, everyone," Sherlock told them, looking down at them all. "Let's go home."

* * *

 **2012**

" **I took the children to Scotland Yard," said Sherlock, appearing on the camera after a moment as he turned it to face the fireplace. He reappeared on the camera, pacing in front of the armchairs. "Needless to say, Lestrade and his men were shocked."**

* * *

 **2010**

Donovan closed the file in front of her, sighing. "There's nothing."

"Nothing?" asked Lestrade, stepping over to her desk.

"Not a single clue," Donovan told him. "Those kids could be anywhere."

"Yeah, they could be, so we keep looking," Lestrade told her.

"You notice the Freak hasn't even found anything?" said Donovan, waving her hand. "If he's even trying."

"He's trying," said Lestrade emphatically.

"Why would he?" said Donovan. "It's not like he cares. It's only some missing kids. He's probably waiting for them to die before lifting a finger—"

"If you spent half the time investigating that you do complaining about Sherlock Holmes, you probably would have found those children already," Lestrade told her with a hard look.

Donovan closed her eyes, sighed and opened the files again.

"Holy…" said Lestrade.

Donovan looked up to see Lestrade staring at the room behind her. She stood to look towards the entrance to the office. Sherlock Holmes was walking into the room, a small crowd of children in tow and a young girl in his arms.

Sherlock stopped in front of Lestrade. "You'll find the second kidnapper at 567 Lancing Road."

"Second?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock sighed. "I see the officers still haven't notified you yet. I found the first outside a deli. That's when I also found Haley." He glanced down at the girl in his arms.

Lestrade looked down at the children clinging to Sherlock's coat. "All right, we're going to call your parents. Come on." He started leading them towards a conference room at the end of the room.

Sherlock began to follow when Donovan stepped up in front of him.

"Here," said Donovan, reaching for Haley. "We'll take it from here. I'm sure you're _dying_ to unload them." She took hold of the girl.

"Donovan—" Sherlock began, trying to turn away.

"It's all right," Donovan told Haley as the girl started to struggle a little. She took her into her arms. "You're safe now."

Haley began crying and pushing against the sergeant, reaching out for Sherlock as Donovan frowned in confusion.

Sherlock instantly stepped forward, taking the hysterical girl back into his arms. Haley buried her face in his coat, holding on tight to him.

"Congratulations, Donovan," Sherlock muttered through gritted teeth. "You've just destroyed any semblance of trust I've managed to build. Do something useful for once and back off." He turned and followed Lestrade into the conference room.

* * *

 **2012**

" **The parents were called, and the children were returned home," said Sherlock, holding the camera in front of himself as he walked through the kitchen. "Hopefully, this helped to change Donovan's attitude towards me. Not that I care." He switched the camera off.**

John shook his head. "Sorry, Sherlock. It didn't." He pulled the flash drive from the laptop. "But don't worry. You'll get there…eventually."


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Sixteen

 **12 July 2012**

The public interest surrounding Sherlock's true involvement with Moriarty had finally died down in the last month, and John was able to relax. Now, when Sherlock returned, he would be able to start up where he left off.

John and Greg were starting to get anxious as the two-year anniversary of Sherlock's death grew closer. John was watching his timeline like a hawk, trying to determine when he should tell his friend the truth.

But, in the meantime, John was getting to know Mary better. They had taken to having their lunches together the last few weeks and had grown closer. John had discovered that Mary possessed an impish nature and a wonderfully sarcastic sense of humor. She also seemed to be very intelligent and was always quick on the draw. She even loved hearing stories of his cases with Sherlock. There was something different about her, something that endeared her to him more than any of the other women he had dated in the past. Mary Morstan held the promise of something more, something special.

John locked his office behind him and took a deep breath before starting out towards the waiting room.

"What a day," said Mary as she wrapped her coat around her.

"Yeah," said John with a smile, his hand clenching and unclenching around his scarf.

Mary grabbed her purse from the front desk and turned towards him. "Can't wait to get home and get into a nice, hot bubble bath."

John nodded. "Sounds nice." His eyes went to the floor as he shifted on his feet.

"Well, good night," said Mary, turning and heading for the door.

"Mary," said John, stepping towards her.

Mary turned back to him. "Yeah?"

John stopped in front of her. "Would you, erm…" He hesitated and switched his scarf to his other hand.

Mary's smile widened in what appeared to be amusement.

John cleared his throat. "Would you like to—"

"I'd love to," Mary interrupted.

John froze, staring at her.

"Saturday?" asked Mary. "Seven o'clock?"

John smiled. "Yes, seven is great. Does Great Central at the Landmark Hotel sound good?"

"Yeah," said Mary. "I'm looking forward to it." She leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "See you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow," said John, staring after her as she turned and left.

Mary looked back through the glass door and waved. John waved back at her, and she turned and headed along the pavement. John shook his head, laughing at Mary's intuition and forwardness. He set the alarm and headed out onto the pavement, locking the office behind him.

* * *

 **3 September 2010**

Sherlock glanced over at the camera perched on the table as he sat in front of his microscope at the kitchen table. "So, this explains your earlier letters when you talked of newspaper gossip." He went back to his samples. "It doesn't make any sense to me, though. People seem to be most excited about that hat. It's strange enough that my detective work has become so popular—" he glared up at the camera, "—thanks for that, by the way—" he looked back at the microscope, "but to be interested simply because of a hat? Ridiculous."

He finally spotted the abnormality he had been looking for: pollen from the southeastern Irish coast. _It_ _ **was**_ _the father!_

"John!" Sherlock called, jumping to his feet. "A break in the case! Quickly!" He rushed off to the sitting room, grabbing his coat as he heard footsteps on the stairs. He suddenly remembered the camera was on, and he hurried to turn it off just as John reached the first floor.

"You got something?" asked John, snatching his coat from his armchair.

"Obviously," said Sherlock, grabbing his scarf and rushing down the stairs.

* * *

 **10 September 2012**

John stepped into the flat, tossing his coat onto the sofa. His eyes automatically swept over to the mantelpiece, seeing that his letter had been removed and the flash drive was pinned there by itself. He removed it and plugged it into his laptop, watching Sherlock complain about his blossoming fame and the hat before running off on his case with John.

John fetched his pad of paper and sat down in his armchair.

" _10/9/12_

 _Well, it's hardly my fault you're such an interesting person. Guess you shouldn't have gone into detective work. And may I remind you that you were the one who insisted we put those hats on to avoid attention. Had rather the opposite effect, didn't it?_

 _John"_

John removed the paper, folding it and placing it on the mantel. Not long after he had put the knife in place, they both vanished. John smiled; it had been a while since they had written back and forth at the same time.

He went to make himself some tea, and by the time he had come back, a new piece of paper was there.

" _But it wasn't even my hat!"_

John smiled and scribbled onto the same sheet of paper:

" _I don't think they care."_

" _You were wearing a hat. Why aren't they obsessing over you? It's_ _ **your**_ _blog!"_

" _I'm not the world's only consulting detective, remember?"_

" _Details!"_

" _Ah, but details are important. Details tell you everything."_

" _Quit quoting me to me."_

" _Admit it. You enjoy it."_

" _Enjoy what? The reporters popping up whenever Scotland Yard calls me in, whenever there's a juicy murder?"_

" _You enjoy being Sherlock Holmes. You love showing off and proving how clever you are, and finally, all of London is seeing that. You are secretly loving this, and you cannot convince me otherwise."_

John stood at the fireplace after that last letter had disappeared for a full five minutes before he decided to go change into his bed clothes. He came back down to check the mantel, but it was still void of letters.

John laughed. "He never did like it when I got the last word." He turned to head back up to his room. "He never likes it when _anyone_ has the last word."

* * *

 **16 September 2012**

John pulled the flash drive from the knife and stuck it into his laptop, playing the video.

 **Sherlock stood in his bedroom, the camera sitting on his bed. He was angrily tapping at his phone, his teeth gritted in frustration. "You wouldn't happen to know how to change this personalized text alert back, would you?" He frowned as he tapped relentlessly at the phone's screen. "What did she do to this?"**

John laughed as the video ended.

* * *

" **17** **th** **September 2010, 8:12 a.m.," said Sherlock as he sat in his armchair. "The Woman had disappeared into the wind. No clues as to where she might be. She couldn't have done all of that just to meet me. There has to be a reason." He looked at the camera. "At least tell me that we catch her at some point."**

* * *

" _21/9/12_

 _Sherlock,_

 _You know I can't tell you that. Not to worry, it ends good. Or bad, depending on how you look at it._

 _John"_

* * *

 **7 November 2012**

"He did apologize to her, didn't he?" asked Mary.

"Yeah, surprisingly," John replied. "That was the first time I'd ever heard him give out a sincere apology without being told to. But, yeah, that's basically Sherlock in a nutshell: so desperate to show off or drive away boredom that he humiliates anyone and everyone." He suddenly frowned as he realized how that had sounded. "Why was I friends with him again?"

Mary laughed as John did as well. She took a drink from her wine glass and set it back on the table. "Are you sure that was his motivation?"

"What?" asked John.

"Showing off or boredom," Mary clarified. "Are you sure that's why he acted like that?"

John shrugged. "Why else would he do that to Molly?"

Mary gave him a suggestive look. "Well, Sherlock had deduced that Molly was headed to see a guy she was in love with, right? Someone she was serious about?"

"Yeah…" said John, not seeing it.

"So…" Mary spread her hands out in front of her, "Sherlock was jealous."

John stared at her for a moment before bursting into laughter. "No, no, no. _That_ is not Sherlock."

"Oh, please!" said Mary. "He was the proverbial schoolboy pulling Molly's pigtails!"

"I'm telling you, Sherlock doesn't know anything about feelings!" John told her. "He once asked me why a woman would still be upset about her stillborn daughter fourteen years previously!"

"Just because he didn't understand them doesn't mean he never had them," Mary told him.

John shook his head. "It's very unlikely, Mary."

"But not impossible," Mary pointed out.

 _If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains—however improbable—must be the truth._

John smiled and took a drink of his wine.

"I wish I could have met him," said Mary. "He sounds pleasant."

John huffed out a laugh, setting his glass down.

"What?" asked Mary.

"No one thinks Sherlock is pleasant."

"You do."

John shrugged. "Yeah, well, I'm weird."

"Maybe I'm weird, too."

John smiled at her and reached across the table to take hold of her hand.

"Can I ask you something?" said Mary.

"Sure," said John.

Mary lowered her voice and asked, "Sherlock's not dead, is he?"

John froze, staring at her in shock and not sure if she meant he was alive now or she knew John was talking to him two years in the past. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you've done very well watching what you say so far, but for the past few minutes, you've referred to him in the present tense," Mary told him.

" _Past tense, did you notice?" asked Sherlock. "I referred to her husband in the past tense. She joined in. Bit premature; they've only just found the car."_

John stared at her, caught. _Shit, I did, didn't I?_

Thinking quick, he smiled and shook his head. "How do you always see this stuff?"

"I'm good at reading people," said Mary, scooting forward on her seat in excitement. "Spill."

John sighed and glanced around the restaurant to make sure he wouldn't be overheard. He looked back at Mary. "Sherlock and his brother set the whole thing up. They let Moriarty frame Sherlock to draw him out. They had plans in place, and when Moriarty told Sherlock about the snipers, Sherlock used a code word. Unknown to me at the time, there was an airbag on the pavement behind the ambulance station. Sherlock jumped, and then they moved it and put a body double out so I would see it. When the cyclist hit me, they took the body away and put Sherlock in its place. He faked the whole thing so he could hunt down Moriarty's network."

Mary shook her head in amazement. "When did you find out?"

"A few weeks after his funeral, he…" John smiled fondly at the memory of that first letter on the mantel, "got a message to me."

"Does he know when he's coming back?" asked Mary.

"Sometime in June, he thinks," John told her.

"Oh, fantastic!" said Mary.

John smiled at her obvious glee over this whole thing. _Well, I'd_ _ **really**_ _better save Sherlock now, 'cause I don't know what I'm going to tell Mary if he doesn't show up._

* * *

 **5 January 2013**

John looked up at the familiar thud of the knife sounded in the sitting room. He stood from his armchair and walked to the fireplace, retrieving a small piece of paper.

" _In all seriousness,_ _ **please**_ _give me the camera phone's passcode."_

John chuckled and scribbled his answer n the back:

" _You'll get it eventually."_

* * *

 **21 January 2013**

"A sauna?" asked John from the sofa. "How did he die?"

"Hypothermia," said Greg, nursing a cup of tea in Sherlock's armchair.

"Hypothermia?" asked Mary next to John. "How the hell did that happen?"

"I had no clue," said Greg. "And then, all of a sudden, this kid strolls right up to the scene and starts looking at the body!"

John and Mary laughed.

"We tried pulling him away, but then he pointed out the clues we had missed," said Greg.

John faintly heard a thud and glanced over at the fireplace; there was a new letter there.

"And?" asked Mary.

John gave each of them a quick smile to excuse himself as he set his tea on the coffee table, and he walked to the mantel, grabbing the letter. He moved over into the kitchen, opening the letter.

" _21 January 2011_

 _John,_

 _Well, it's not like I can use the phrase 'You won't believe the day I've just had,' because you actually do since you've lived through it. England can finally say goodbye to the Woman. Despite my negative feelings about the whole situation, she was quite formidable; a worthy opponent._

 _Sherlock_

 _P.S., I know you tried hard to convince me she was in witness protection in America, but the truth was written all over your face."_

John looked up in exasperation. _Well…maybe I should have told him the truth, then. He seems to have handled the news of her death well._ He looked back down at the letter.

" _However, the real truth is that Mycroft is wrong. You wondered, didn't you, whether she had faked her death. Mycroft assured you he was thorough, didn't he? Well…he wasn't thorough enough."_

John's eyes rose from the letter in shock.

" _It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me," said Mycroft._

John looked up as Greg joined him in the kitchen. "She's alive. I don't believe it."

"Who?" asked Greg.

"Irene Adler," said John, brandishing the letter as he let out an annoyed breath. "That git stood there and let me lie to him about her supposed death."

Greg smiled. "There's Sherlock for you." He turned and made his way back into the sitting room.

John shook his head and followed, rejoining Mary on the sofa.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Seventeen

 **9 February 2013**

Greg stepped into 221B Baker Street, an old shoe box in his hands. "Hey, John."

"Greg, hey," greeted John. "Thanks for coming."

"Well, free dinner; how could I say no?" said Greg with a smile.

John laughed a little. "Tea?"

"I'd love some, thanks," said Greg, setting the box down on the coffee table. "Any new letters?"

John waved over at the dining table by the windows on his way to the kitchen. "Under my laptop."

John headed into the kitchen, fixing a couple cups of tea. By the time he came back into the sitting room, Greg was on the last letter. When John set the cup down in front of him on the coffee table, Greg looked up at him.

"So, that's how he sends those texts during press conferences," said Greg, holding the letter up and waving it a little. "I always wondered." He set the paper down with the others and picked up the tea.

John smiled as he sat in his armchair, taking a sip of his own tea. "How're things at the Yard? Donovan gotten back to her usual self yet?"

"No, thank goodness," sighed Greg. "You ask me, she still feels bad about driving Sherlock to his death."

"Well, better late than never, I guess," muttered John with slight bitterness as he took another drink.

"That might change when he comes back, though," Greg pointed out. "She hates it when someone makes her look bad."

John smirked. "Remind you of anyone?"

Greg chuckled as he took a drink of tea.

John nodded at the shoebox on the table. "What's in the box?"

"Mm." Greg set the cup and saucer on the table. "Just a few things Sherlock has left behind at my office over the years. But this…" He took the lid off and pulled out a thin plastic case. "You remember the video message he made for your birthday?"

"Yeah," said John.

"This is the uncut version," said Greg.

"Oh," said John, setting his tea on the table next to him and standing.

"It's quite funny," said Greg, handing it to John as he approached.

John stared at it for a moment and then glanced up at Greg. He smiled and opened the case as he turned and walked over to the television. Inserting the DVD into the player, he started it all up and pressed play.

On the screen appeared the sitting room of Baker Street, showing the wall with its smiley face above the sofa.

" **Was that supposed to happen—the light going down?" Sherlock asked off-camera. "Yeah, okay."**

 **Sherlock appeared on the screen, pacing across in front of the sofa. "Oh, er, mm. So, what do I—what do I—what d'you want me to do at the end?" He stopped and looked slightly off camera at the person holding it. "Shall I, um…smile and wink? I do that sometimes. I've no idea why. People seem to like it…humanizes me." He turned away from the camera.**

" **Fine," said Greg from behind the camera. "Whatever."**

 **Sherlock turned back to him. "Why am I doing this, again?"**

" **You're gonna miss the dinner," said Greg.**

" **Of** _ **course**_ **I'm gonna miss dinner," said Sherlock emphatically. "There'll be** _ **people**_ **." He started to turn away but then turned back again. "How can John be having a birthday dinner? All his friends hate him."**

John smiled and shook his head.

" **You only have to look at their faces," said Sherlock. "I wrote an essay on suppressed hatred in close proximity based entirely on his friends." He looked away thoughtfully. "On reflection, it probably wasn't a very good choice of gift." He pulled himself together and looked into the camera for a moment. He then frowned as he looked past it to Greg. "What was my excuse, again?"**

" **You said you had a thing."**

" **Ah, right, yes!" said Sherlock. "That's right. A thing."**

" **You might wanna elaborate."**

" **No, no, no," said Sherlock. "Only lies have detail."**

John closed his eyes and shook his head minutely.

 **Sherlock stared into the camera for a couple of seconds. "Right, I just…I need a moment to, um, figure out what I'm going to do." He walked off camera towards the windows. He then appeared back in front of the camera, looking into it. "Okay." He headed towards his armchair as the camera followed him. "Okay, I'm ready now." He settled into his armchair and looked into the camera.**

" **Hello, John," said Sherlock, smiling. "I'm sorry I'm not there at the moment. I'm very busy. However, many happy returns."**

John watched the screen, sobering slightly. _I wish you really were busy and not just dead._

" **Oh, and don't worry," said Sherlock. "I'm going to be with you again** _ **very**_ **soon." He smiled and gave the camera a wink.**

John shook his head as he chuckled. "'Be with you again very soon.'"

"Kind of a double meaning, isn't it?" asked Greg.

"Definitely," said John. "It's like he knew." He then stopped, his smile dropping, as he remembered which birthday this had been for. "Greg, when did you and Sherlock make this video?"

"Well, it was about a week before the dinner, so it would have been…" Greg trailed off as he realized as well. He looked up at John. "Two years ago this April."

John nodded. "Two months before he died. I would have told him about his death by that point. Which means he made this knowing I would most likely watch it again after he died." He shook his head. "The drama queen…"

Greg looked back at the screen, at the frozen mage of Sherlock smiling widely up at the camera from his armchair. "It's almost hard to imagine that when he was filming this, he knew he had only two months to live."

John looked up at the screen. "Maybe that's the real reason he didn't want to go to the dinner."

Greg gave a shrug as John shut the television off. "Maybe. And speaking of dinner…"

John laughed and headed into the kitchen to check on it.

* * *

 **5 March 2011**

Sherlock paced rapidly between the door and window of the sitting room, tossing his harpoon from one hand to the other as he looked round to John flicking through some newspapers in his armchair. "Nothing?"

"Military coup in Uganda," John told him.

"Hmm," said Sherlock.

John chuckled in amusement, pointing at the newspaper in his hand. "Another photo of you with the, er…"

Sherlock huffed out a disgusted sigh. _Stupid hat!_

"Oh, um, Cabinet reshuffle," said John.

"Nothing of importance?" said Sherlock furiously, slamming the end of the harpoon onto the ground and roaring with rage. "Oh, God!" He looked round at John intensely. "John, I need some. Get me some."

"No," said John calmly.

"Get me some," said Sherlock intensely.

"No," said John, pointing sternly at him. "Cold turkey, we agreed, no matter what."

Irritated, Sherlock leaned the harpoon against the dining table.

"Anyway, you've paid everyone off, remember?" said John. "No one within a two mile radius'll sell you any."

"Stupid idea," said Sherlock. "Whose idea was that?"

John looked round at him and cleared his throat pointedly.

Sherlock snatched a piece of paper from the table in front of him as he yelled. "Mrs. Hudson!" He scribbled off a note hastily and stabbed it into the mantel. He then moved back to the table, hurling papers off of it as he searched for his cigarettes.

* * *

 **5 March 2013**

John glanced up as the soft thud sounded in the room. Smiling, he got up from reading his newspaper and retrieved the letter. In an untidy scrawl was one sentence:

" _John, tell yourself to give me my cigarettes!"_

John laughed and scratched out his own note on the paper, putting it in place and going back to the newspaper.

* * *

 **5 March 2011**

Sherlock rummaged about in the fireplace. "My secret supply. What have you done with my secret supply?"

"Eh?" asked Mrs. Hudson behind him.

"Cigarettes!" yelled Sherlock. "What have you done with them? Where are they?"

"You know you never let me touch your things!" said Mrs. Hudson. "Ooh, chance would be a fine thing."

Sherlock stood and faced her. "I thought you weren't my housekeeper." He looked back at the mantelpiece to find a new piece of paper there.

"I'm not," said Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock ripped the paper from the knife, holding it up in front of himself.

" _Tell myself to tell you no."_

Groaning in frustration, Sherlock ripped the paper up and tossed it in the fireplace, stomping back over to the harpoon and picking it up again.

* * *

 **6 March 2013**

John stared at the timeline, hardly able to believe it. It was already here. Two years ago, he and Sherlock were currently in Devon, hunting down the demon hound of Baskerville. It was now or never.

John stepped over to the dining table, pulling his pad of paper out and starting to write. Just as he got to the end, the sound of the front door closing sounded up the stairs, followed by footfalls on the steps. John looked up to see Greg coming up the stairs and stepping into the flat.

"You're really going to tell him?" Greg asked, standing just inside the door.

John leaned back in his seat, setting the pen down. "I have to. It's sometime after Baskerville that Moriarty started poisoning the sugar. He needs to start tracking his blood toxicity."

"But isn't it a little soon?" asked Greg, walking over to the other side of the table. "You're not afraid the timeline will change for the worse?"

"We have to take that risk," said John. "The timeline has already changed for the worse. Besides, if I know Sherlock and his brother, they've already started planning his death. And he's already proven the first time we met that he can maintain the past without changing it. He's smart enough to know how he would react if he didn't know what I've told him. I have to trust that he can take this and use it to fix the past—his future—because if I don't, he stays dead."

"What did I just walk in on?"

John and Greg glanced over at the door to see Mary standing there.

Mary looked at John. "I was coming to talk to you about…" She looked back and forth between the two of them, confusion written all over her face. "Changing the timeline, fixing the past, Sherlock not staying dead? What's going on, John?"

John glanced uneasily at Greg and then let out a sigh and looked back at Mary. "You'd better sit down. It's a long story."

* * *

 **6 March 2011**

Sherlock walked towards John in the graveyard next to the church, watching as John avoided his gaze and tucked his notebook into his pocket.

Sherlock stopped in front of him, not sure where to start. "Did you, er, get anywhere with that Morse code?"

John stepped down from the steps he was sitting on. "No." He started to walk away.

"U, M, Q, R, A, wasn't it?" asked Sherlock as he followed John. _What kind of word is that?_ "Umqra."

"Nothing," John told him.

 _Maybe it's an acronym._ "U.M.Q.…"

"Look, forget it," said John. "It's…I thought I was on to something. I wasn't."

"Sure?"

"Yeah."

 _He's still a bit stand-offish. How do you cheer up a friend?_ "How about Louise Mortimer? Did you get anywhere with her?"

"No."

"Too bad," said Sherlock. "Did you get any information?"

John glanced over his shoulder but kept walking. "You being funny now?"

"Thought it might break the ice a bit," said Sherlock.

"Funny doesn't suit you," John bit off. "I'd stick to ice."

Sherlock grimaced at the bitterness in John's tone. "John…"

"It's fine."

"No, wait. What happened last night… Something happened to me; something I've not really experienced before…"

"Yes, you said: fear," said John. "Sherlock Holmes got scared. You said."

Sherlock strode forward enough to grab onto John's arm, turning him to face him as they stopped. "No, no, no, it was more than that, John. It was doubt. I felt doubt. I've always been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes, until last night."

"You can't actually believe that you saw some kind of monster," said John.

"No, I can't believe that." Sherlock grinned bitterly for a moment. "But I did see it, so the question is: how? _How_?"

John hesitated for a while. "Yes. Yeah, right, good. So, you've got something to go on, then? Good luck with that." He turned and started to walk away again.

Sherlock stared after him with a frown. _He's leaving… No, no, no… This isn't right._

He had broken it; he'd broken the timeline. John was upset, more upset than their usual arguments left him. Was he really going to end their friendship? He couldn't risk it. John was the only friend he had ever had! How was he supposed to fix this? What had he done to anger John, his only friend?

" _I don't have_ _ **friends**_ _."_

Sherlock's eyes widened. _Oh…_

He had emphasized the word "friends," thinking John would know he was saying he didn't have other friends. But to the average person, that might have come out sounding like Sherlock didn't consider anyone to be his friend, not even John.

Sherlock immediately turned to see that John had almost made it to the road. "Listen, what I said before, John. I meant it."

John stopped and turned back to face him, jaw clenched.

"I don't have friends," said Sherlock in an apologetic tone. "I've just got one."

John looked away, and Sherlock's heart nearly stopped.

John nodded and glanced back at Sherlock, his jaw relaxed and a slight smile at the corner of his mouth. "Right."

Sherlock smiled a little in relief.

* * *

 **6 March 2013**

Mary sat in stunned silence across from John. "So, he _is_ dead, but…in three months, he might not be."

John nodded. "Hopefully."

Mary shook her head as she sat back against the chair's backrest. "I'd say you were crazy, but I know you're not. Do you still have his letters?"

John nodded. "And the videos. I saved them on my laptop. And, yes," he said as she opened her mouth to speak, "you can look at them."

"Oh, excellent!" said Mary with a smile. "Three's company!"

Greg smiled and stood from Sherlock's armchair. "Listen, I need to get back. Tell me how he responds, John."

"I will," John replied, and Greg made his way out of the flat and back down the stairs.

"Responds to what?" asked Mary.

John tapped his unfinished letter in front of him. "I'm telling him when he dies and how."

"Ooh, need help?" asked Mary, a sympathetic frown on her face.

"No, no, just about finished," John assured her. He frowned suddenly as he remembered. "Oh, erm, you wanted to talk to me?"

"Oh…right…" said Mary, her gaze falling.

John's frown deepened as he reached across the table to take her hand. "Is everything all right?"

"I hope it will be," said Mary, looking up at him. "But I will understand if you never want to talk to me again."

John reached his other hand forward to hold her hand in both of his. "Hey, that won't happen."

"Don't be so sure, John," Mary told him. "You may never forgive me for what I'm about to tell you."

* * *

 **7 March 2011**

Sherlock tossed his bags onto the sofa as John did the same.

"Oh, I need some sleep," mumbled John, flopping down into his armchair.

"A bed would be a more fitting place to do that, wouldn't it?" suggested Sherlock, striding over to the door to hang his coat and scarf.

"I'm too tired to go to a bed," muttered John, his head lolling back on the chair and his eyes closing.

"What a predicament," said Sherlock, heading over to the table at the windows.

"I still have another ten minutes before you pick up the violin," John muttered sleepily.

"Not today, John," Sherlock told him, grabbing said violin. "I recapped the case on the train, remember?"

"Oh, right, you did." John dragged himself out of the chair and towards the stairs.

Sherlock watched him until he had disappeared up to his room, and then he set the violin down and pulled the letter he had written on the train out of his pocket. He turned towards the fireplace and raised his hand to yank the knife from the mantel when he noticed that there was already a letter there. He set his letter down and grabbed the other, opening it to read. He didn't get very far before it dropped from his numb fingers.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Eighteen

 **7 March 2011**

" _6_ _/3/13_

 _Sherlock,_

 _The time has finally come for me to tell you the truth about what happened between us, and I only do this as a matter of life and death. Even now, I'm sure you've gotten well into your plans with Mycroft about taking care of Moriarty._

 _But Moriarty has a plan, too._

 _The reason why we are no longer living together, why we are no longer solving cases and why it took me so long to believe it was you is because you're dead. You died on 12 June 2011. Mycroft told me all about the fake suicide plan you ended up choosing, and it looks like it would have worked, but you died from a massive amount of blood clots that traveled to your lungs. He had been poisoning you for weeks maybe even months. He had laced our sugar tin with tranexamic acid—an antifibrinolytic—because he knew from my blog that I don't take sugar in my coffee._

 _You need to start testing your blood toxicity, and when the tranexamic acid shows up, start taking streptokinase. If this works, come find me at Baker Street._

 _Good luck,_

 _John"_

Sherlock stood staring at the letter that he had retrieved from the floor. _Dead?_

Of course, he had deduced it in some of the first letters as a reason for why he was no longer at Baker Street, but he had eventually dismissed it. Surely, if John had gotten a letter from a dead flatmate and friend, he would have been righteously furious at the imposter?

 _But he was, remember?_

But he never once accidentally let slip some kind of implication that Sherlock was dead?

 _Oh, but he had. In his own way, he had._

" _How dare you try to pretend to be him. Have you no respect?"_

" _You people may not believe in Sherlock Holmes, but some of us still do."_

" _I don't know what to believe anymore. Is this really you?"_

" _I miss our cases more than I thought I would."_

" _That explains everything…how you're talking to me in the first place."_

So, it seemed that Moriarty was just as cunning as Sherlock; he had a back-up plan as well. It was the one thing he and Mycroft had not counted on: that Moriarty wanted Sherlock dead more than he wanted to beat him.

Sherlock smiled down at the letter. Fortunately, there was still one thing he had that Moriarty didn't: John Watson.

* * *

 **8 March 2013**

John led Mary into the sitting room, preparing himself for a difficult conversation. He hadn't spoken to her in three days, quite unable to face her for her deception. A spy? Mary had been a spy? Well, no, that's not true. Mary Morstan had been long dead. Whoever this woman was (A.G.R.A.?), _she_ had been a spy. And had been lying to him since the day she had met him. But…she had told him. She had come to tell him of her own free will. That made things better…didn't it?

John laid his coat on his armchair and turned towards Mary, who refused to meet his eyes. "Mary…"

Mary looked up at him, her face unreadable.

John sighed and looked away, trying to think of the words. To be honest, he wasn't even sure what he wanted to tell her. He looked back up at her. "I don't react well to deception. Which is probably Sherlock's fault." He gave a small smirk, which Mary did not return. "And to think that you've been lying to me for a year…"

Mary's eyes lowered to the floor as her shoulders dropped. She seemed to be shrinking into herself.

John took a steadying breath. "However…"

Mary looked up at him.

"If anyone can understand the need to keep a secret for a good reason…" John told her, giving a shrug.

Mary's eyes began to tear up.

"I'd be a bit of a hypocrite if I held a grudge for this, wouldn't I?" said John with a smile.

Mary shook her head as a tear fell down her face. "You don't even know my name."

"Is Mary good enough for you?" asked John.

Mary nodded, a smile on her face. "Oh, yes."

"Then it's good enough for me, too," John told her, stepping forward and pulling her into an embrace.

Mary gave a happy, relieved laugh as she held him close. "What did I do to deserve you, John Watson?"

"Not a clue," said John.

"John…" began Mary.

John eased back at her tone. She was staring towards the wall behind him. John turned and looked towards the fireplace.

"The knife just appeared," Mary told him. "Out of nowhere…"

John smiled at her. "Weird, isn't it?" He stepped up to the fireplace and pulled the letter free, reading it aloud.

" _7 March 2011_

 _John,_

 _Oh, excellent case, John! Excellent! A monstrous hound, a decades old murder, a secret government experiment… I wish you'd been there. Well, technically, you were, but you know what I mean._

 _I've just finished recapping the case to you, and you have now fallen asleep. I don't understand it. You slept last night. How much sleep do you need?_

 _I wonder how much longer you are going to wait to talk to me. Don't think I haven't been counting down the days to this month. Please don't tell me I have to wait much longer. I may have been able to wait (impatiently) these many months, but I think my brain just might implode if told I must wait even longer._

 _Sherlock"_

Below the main body of the letter was a postscript written in a slightly different pen than the rest.

" _P.S. I have just returned home and received your letter, John. Dead? Are you certain? Perhaps I have simply faked it. Then again, Mycroft would not have come clean of our plans unless it had all gone horribly wrong. We had agreed months ago that in order to protect you (and everyone else connected to me), it was best not to involve you. I do apologize about that, by the way. It was the only way to save your life. You know your acting skills are appalling._

 _I almost can't believe that you've lived with this secret the last two years. Looking back now on your earlier letters, though, I do see the hints that I should have picked up on. It's a miracle you hadn't let this slip before you were certain it was actually me. I applaud you on the effort it must have taken to keep this from me. Your decision on when to come clean is superb, though. I will start keeping an eye on my blood tests and will keep you informed._

 _Thank you, John."_

John put the letter down on the table, looking up at Mary. "Well, he took that well."

Mary nodded. "As well as he could. Things are looking up."

John laughed and pulled her in for a kiss.

* * *

 **10 March 2011**

Sherlock stepped into the lab of St. Bart's, glancing over to see Molly working away at some tissue samples. "Molly."

Molly turned her head to look at him. "Sherlock." She smiled. "What brings you here?"

"I need your help," Sherlock told her. "It's a very important matter that requires your utmost discretion."

Molly moved over towards him. "Of course. What is it?"

"Molly, I think I'm going to die," Sherlock replied.

Molly's eyes widened. "Die? What do you mean?"

"Mycroft and I have been working on a plan to bring down Moriarty for some months now. I've just been tipped off by an inside man that he's about to make his move. He's going to start poisoning me soon. I need you to regularly test my blood for tranexamic acid. When the antifibrinolytic starts showing on the tox screen, you need to prescribe me streptokinase. You also need to be my alibi for why I keep visiting Bart's so often, perhaps autopsies or experiments that would interest me."

"Why do you need an alibi?" asked Molly. "Surely Mycroft can take care of everything."

"He can't know," said Sherlock. "He'd only worry. Molly…can you do this for me?"

Molly nodded after a moment. "Of course."

Sherlock smiled at her. "Thank you." He leaned forward and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. "Shall we get started?" He strode over to the bench, taking off his coat.

* * *

 **8 April 2011**

"Sherlock."

"Hmm?" asked Sherlock vaguely, his attention focused on the stack of papers in front of him.

"Are you coming?" asked John from the door of the flat.

"To what?" asked Sherlock.

John gave a long-suffering sigh. "My birthday dinner on Friday, that I've been telling you about the past five minutes."

Sherlock froze. _Birthday dinner?_ He internally grimaced. _Highly unlikely it's just the two of us. Ugh, people!_

He looked over at John, a grimace on his face. "Friday? Sorry, I have a thing." He looked back at his microscope, turning a knob on the side.

"A thing," stated John. "What, a case?"

Sherlock didn't respond, his mind already starting to get absorbed in his work again.

John gave another sigh and adopted a mocking tone. "No, I just don't understand the importance of birthdays. On _my_ planet, we don't put up with such nonsense." His voice drifted away as his footsteps receded into the stairwell.

Sherlock smirked in amusement as he put another slide on the microscope. He pulled out his phone and sent off a text to Lestrade.

 **Need help with an idea for John's birthday gift. Can't go to dinner.**

 **SH**

Not long after that, Lestrade texted him back.

 **Maybe a birthday video?**

* * *

 **23 April 2011**

Sherlock placed a piece of medical tape over the gauze in the crook of his elbow, rolling his sleeve down over it. "Has Mycroft come asking around yet?"

"Yes," Molly told him, carrying the vial of Sherlock's blood over to her bench. "I told him about the experiments we've been doing while waiting for the results. He doesn't seem to suspect a thing."

Sherlock smirked as he grabbed his suit jacket and shrugged it on. "Perfect. Mycroft is a master at picking up deception—don't tell him I said that—and since you're telling the truth, he shouldn't be the wiser."

Molly shook her head as she got to work. "I will never understand your family. You are going to an awful lot of trouble not to worry your brother."

Sherlock gave a shrug as he stepped over, his hands clasped behind his back as he waited. "You've seen how overbearing my brother can be in the best of circumstances. Imagine if he found out I was being poisoned." He gave a grimace and a shudder for effect.

Molly smiled and laughed a little. She put the last pieces in place and turned to him. "There we go."

"What do we have today?" Sherlock asked her.

"An autopsy," Molly told him, taking off her gloves and throwing them in the bin. "A man died due to an allergic reaction at a deli after eating a brownie with nuts in it."

"But?" asked Sherlock, knowing full well that Molly knew he only liked the weird cases and therefore had something up her sleeve.

Molly gave him a sly, amused smile. "He wasn't allergic to nuts or chocolate."

"Oh, excellent," said Sherlock with a smile as he and Molly set off for the morgue.

A half hour later, they had arrived back in the lab, Molly heading to the computer to check the test results.

"Well, that was extremely disappointing," grumbled Sherlock, dropping down onto a stool next to a bench.

"I can't believe the medical examiner on the scene didn't figure that out," said Molly as she opened the file that contained the results.

"Do what I do: assume everyone is an idiot," Sherlock told her. "Saves you the trouble of being disappointed." He paused for a moment in the silence and then said, "Although, you would think a doctor would recognize the signs of poison."

"Sherlock…"

"Even though the poison had been a rather more difficult one to pinpoint, there were clear signs of cyanotic tissue on his fingers and lips," Sherlock went on.

"Sherlock."

"It's like he took one look at the mouth and assumed the cyanosis was due to lack of oxygen from asphyxiation," Sherlock went on. "He didn't even look at the fingers!"

"Sherlock," Molly said in a sharp, louder tone.

Sherlock stopped and looked up to see Molly standing at the computer and facing him with a concerned look on her face. Sherlock's eyes slid to the computer screen behind her, which displayed his test results.

He looked back at her, his demeanor somber now. "Positive?"

Molly nodded and stepped aside. Sherlock stood and moved to the computer, looking down at the tox screen.

 **Drug tested - Tranexamic acid**

 **Results in ng/ml - more than 1000**

 **Interpretation - Detected**

A prescription bottle appeared in front of him, and he looked up at Molly.

"Looks like your inside man was right," said Molly quietly.

Sherlock accepted the bottle of streptokinase and opened the top. "Looks like."

"You need to take one pill every twelve hours," Molly told him. "We'll still need to test your blood every four days, just to be safe."

Sherlock nodded. "Of course." He tipped a pill out of the bottle and dry-swallowed it, screwing the cap back on. "Thank you."

Molly nodded back, smiling nervously. "You're welcome."

Sherlock turned and grabbed his coat and scarf, putting them on and heading for the door. He stopped as he reached it and hesitated before turning back. "Molly."

Molly turned away from the bench to face him.

Sherlock hesitated once more, unable to figure out how to voice his thoughts or even what his thoughts were. "Be careful."

Molly shifted on her feet at his quiet tone.

"Moriarty could show up any day now," Sherlock went on. "If you notice anything suspicious or out of place, call me. Any time."

Molly stared at him for a while before speaking. "I will."

Sherlock watched her another few moments before turning and leaving the lab.

* * *

 **26 April 2013**

"Hey, Molly," John greeted as she stepped into the flat. He gave her a brief hug and then held his arm out. "Here, I'll take your coat."

Molly shrugged out of her coat and handed it to him. "Thanks. Happy late Birthday."

John smiled as he took the coat into Sherlock's room and placed it on the bed. He came back to find Molly and Mary deep in conversation as Greg poured them drinks.

"So," said Greg in a lowered voice as John approached, "any news?"

"Nothing I hadn't expected," John replied in an equally low voice. "Sherlock's blood tests came back positive a few days ago, so he's started taking the streptokinase."

"And the timeline?" asked Greg.

"You will be arresting Moriarty in a couple days," John told him.

Greg nodded, somberly staring down at the table. "It's starting, then."

"Yeah…" muttered John, looking down at his hands.

"What's keeping you boys so long?" Mary called from the sitting room.

John smiled as he grabbed two glasses of wine and headed into the other room. He handed one glass to Mary and gave her a kiss on the forehead as he sat down next to her on the sofa.

"What were you talking about in there?" asked Mary as Greg brought a glass of wine out to Molly and Mrs. Hudson before going back to fetch his own.

John took a steadying breath. "Honestly…Sherlock."

The three women each quieted as their faces took on sober expressions, though Mary's looked slightly more forced as she played the part of sympathetic girlfriend.

"Almost two years…" said Mrs. Hudson quietly.

"Yeah…" said John, looking down at his glass.

"Do you think he would've liked the plaque they put up for him at Scotland Yard?" asked Mary, very effectively steering them away from the more depressing side of the topic.

John laughed. "Oh, God, no. He'd have hated it."

Greg laughed with him. "Probably still manage to rub it in Donovan's face, though."

John nodded as they laughed. "Oh, definitely."

The timer went off on the oven, and Mrs. Hudson stood to go tend to it.

"Here, I'll help," John told her.

Mary stood and placed a hand on his arm. "No, I will."

"Mary—" began John.

"You are not preparing your own birthday dinner," Mary told him sternly. "Sit." She dashed off into the kitchen.

John smiled as he sat back down and looked over at Molly, who was watching him sadly. "You all right, Molly?"

Molly gave a small nod and then hesitated before shaking her head. "No. No, I can't keep this from you anymore."

John frowned in concern and moved over closer to her.

"I just…" began Molly, unable to meet his gaze, "I was prepared to keep this from you because Sherlock would be hunting Moriarty's people and would be back one day, but…"

John relaxed as he realized what Molly was trying to tell him.

"But, now…" said Molly, pausing for a moment. "You deserve to know how he really died."

"Embolism," John finished for her.

Molly's eyes finally met his, her mouth open in shock.

"Mycroft told me, not too long after Sherlock died," John told her. "I know he was poisoned."

Molly let out a relieved breath. "Oh, thank God." Her face then paled as her eyes went wide. "No, I didn't mean—That wasn't—"

John smiled and placed his hand over hers. "I knew what you meant."

Molly took a drink of her wine. "There's, erm…there's something else. Something Mycroft never knew about." She looked back up at him. "Sherlock knew he was being poisoned."

John's brows drew together in interest. _He told Molly?_ Then again, that made sense. Who else would Sherlock ask to run the blood tests?

"He said he'd gotten information from a man inside Moriarty's network—"

John stifled his smile as best he could.

"—that Moriarty would start poisoning him," Molly went on. "I tested his blood and gave him streptokinase to take, but…somehow, it didn't work."

 _Or the past is already fixed and he didn't tell you he'd faked his death,_ John thought.

But that made no sense. Why would Sherlock confide in Molly about being poisoned and then make her think he was dead? Mycroft had told him Molly had been part of the plan. Why would that change? Did John's warning not work? Or had the streptokinase just not quite taken effect yet? Or was it that ridiculous time-vortex effect, and Molly wouldn't remember helping Sherlock successfully fake his death until it had happened two years ago?

John shook his head to dispel the confusing thoughts. He would just have to figure that out later.

He gave Molly's hand a squeeze. "It wasn't your fault. You did everything you could to help him."

Molly nodded and smiled at him.

"Dinner's ready!" Mary called from the kitchen.

John smiled at her and tilted his head towards the kitchen. "Come on." He helped Molly to her feet and followed her to the other room, where they all insisted on singing "Happy (late) Birthday."

* * *

 **2 May 2011**

Sherlock swallowed one of the streptokinase pills and put the bottle—disguised as a bupropion SR prescription to go along with his recent efforts to quit smoking—back into his pocket. He stepped away from the mannequin he had just hung from the ceiling and towards the kitchen table, trying to think of something else to occupy his time. London had been unusually quiet the past two weeks. Not completely quiet—that would be absurdly impossible—but there had been nothing but minor, easy crimes. It made Sherlock feel uneasy, and he suspected—though he had no real proof—that Moriarty had to be involved.

"'And when the tension receded, there was calm, the calm that is called before the storm…'" muttered Sherlock.

"What was that?" asked John as he stepped into the kitchen, having just come down from his room wearing his robe and carrying a towel.

"Mental note," Sherlock replied as he sat down at his microscope, deciding to study his samples some more.

After a moment, he heard John's footsteps recede down the hall to the bathroom, disappearing inside it. Sherlock glanced over towards the closed bathroom door for a second or two before going back to his work.

The twelfth of June. It was now forty-one days away. If he and Mycroft had planned to take down Moriarty, and therefore Moriarty had planned a huge scheme to take down Sherlock, surely it would start soon, wouldn't it? He hated to use this phrase—because he did not, in fact, want it to happen it if meant his, John's, Mrs. Hudson's or Lestrade's possible deaths—but he wished Moriarty could just get it over with already. The sooner, the better, yes?

Then again…how easy it would be to just drop everything and run. Moriarty wouldn't hurt anyone since he would have no guarantee that would bring Sherlock back to London, especially if Sherlock left a mess in his wake, one that would suggest he had broken ties with everyone. However, it was entirely possible that Moriarty would see right through that ruse and kill them all anyway. And then Mycroft and Molly for good measure.

No. He would just have to stay put and hope in the miracle that was John Watson.

Sherlock hadn't realized how long he had been absorbed in his thoughts until said miracle walked behind him on his way to the sitting room, rubbing the towel on the back of his head to dry it.

"It's your phone," John told him as he passed.

Sherlock spared a moment to think back and remember that his phone had just gone off in the sitting room. "Mm. Keeps doing that."

Sherlock heard the rustle of a newspaper after a moment.

"So, did you just talk to him for a really long time?"

Sherlock looked up towards the mannequin he had hung from the ceiling. "Oh. Henry Fishgard never committed suicide." He picked up the book next to him and slammed it closed. "Bow Street Runners: missed everything." He set the book down on the table and went back to his microscope.

"Pressing case, is it?"

"They're all pressing till they're solved," Sherlock told him.

The sound of a text alert sounded in the sitting room again.

"I'll get it, shall I?" said John.

Sherlock continued with his work as silence reined in the sitting room. _Must not have been important, then._ But, apparently, it was, as John was now at his side, holding the phone out.

"Here," said John in a quiet voice.

"Not now, I'm busy," Sherlock told him.

"Sherlock…"

"Not _now_ ," said Sherlock.

"He's back."

Sherlock froze, looking up at John, who was staring at him with a grim look on his face. The timing, John's tone of voice, the look in his eyes—he could only be talking about one person. Sherlock took the phone from him to read the text.

 **Come and play.**

 **Tower Hill.**

 **Jim Moriarty x.**

* * *

 **11 June 2013**

John sat on his bed, staring at the wall opposite him. He couldn't believe it; the day was finally here. In less than twenty-four hours, Sherlock would be dead. Or would remain dead, whatever. Or he would suddenly appear in the siting room, having been alive this whole time.

Only time would tell.

A knock came at the door, and Mary poked her head in. "Finally awake?" she asked gently.

John only nodded, looking down at his hands.

Mary stepped into the room, sitting next to him and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "You've already saved him. You'll see."

John nodded, placing his hand over hers.

"I made breakfast," Mary told him. "Greg'll be over any minute. You better get dressed."

John smiled. While he was sure they were just as concerned and curious about Sherlock's fate as he was, he knew they were mainly here today to distract him.

He turned to look at Mary. "How did I get so lucky?"

Mary gave a playful shrug. "I'm your guardian angel."

"Guardian angel in body armor and combat boots," John bantered.

Mary laughed as John gave her a kiss. "Come on." She stood and pulled him to his feet. "Get your bum in gear." She pushed him towards the closet as he laughed.

* * *

 **12 June 2011**

Sherlock spun away from Moriarty's dead body, unable to believe it. _No, no, no…_

He turned again to look at him, his hand over his mouth as the blood pooled under the man's head and ran across the rooftop. So, this was it. This is what had driven him to the edge of that roof two years ago—today. This was the moment—the nightmare—that John had had to live with for these two years.

Sherlock stopped as he stared over at the ledge in front of him. _Well, let's hope we changed that._

He stepped up onto the ledge, texting the plan's code word to Mycroft. He lowered his phone to his side, staring down at the pavement below. This was it. Either he would successfully fake his death, or he had less than fifteen minutes to live. So far, his blood work showed that the streptokinase was keeping the blood clots at bay, and he could only hop that this wasn't the way things had gone the first time around.

The phone's text alert went off, and he raised it to see the response:

 **LAZARUS IS GO**

Sherlock looked down to see his homeless network springing into action, rolling out the airbag under cover of the ambulance station and vehicles parked next to it. He glanced up to see the black cab pulling up towards the hospital, and he dialed John's number as it came to a stop across from him and John got out.

" _Hello?"_ asked John as he answered, hurrying towards the hospital.

"John," said Sherlock.

" _Hey, Sherlock, you okay?"_ John asked.

"Turn around and walk back the way you came now," Sherlock told him urgently.

" _No, I'm coming in."_

"Just do as I ask," said Sherlock frantically. "Please."

John came to a stop and turned back, heading for the empty road opposite Sherlock. _"Where?"_

Sherlock waited for him to get in place. "Stop there."

John came to a stop, looking around. _"Sherlock?"_

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

John turned and looked up at him. _"Oh, God."_

"I…I…I can't come down, so we'll…we'll just have to do it like this," said Sherlock shakily.

" _What's going on?"_

"An apology… It's all true."

" _What?"_

"Everything they said about me. I…invented Moriarty." Sherlock looked back briefly—hatefully—at Moriarty's body behind him.

" _Why are you saying this?"_

Sherlock turned back to look down at him, wishing he didn't have to do this. This could very well be a forever goodbye, and Sherlock was doing it by lying to his best friend. "I'm a fake."

" _Sherlock…"_

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson…and Molly… In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

" _Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up,"_ John told him firmly. _"The first time we met—_ _ **the first time we met**_ _—you knew all about my sister, right?"_

"Nobody could be that clever."

" _You could."_

Sherlock let out a laugh, immensely—surprisingly—touched by the conviction in the man's tone. "I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

" _No. All right, stop it now."_ John started making his way towards the entrance again.

"No, stay exactly where you are," Sherlock told him urgently. "Don't move."

Thankfully, John stopped and backed up, holding his hand up. _"All right."_

Sherlock stretched out his own hand, desperate to keep his friend's attention as his network prepared for his jump below him. "Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please, will you do this for me?"

" _Do what?"_

"This phone call—it's, er…it's my note," Sherlock told him. "It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

Sherlock could see John shaking his head, dropping his hand for a moment before bringing it back to his ear. _"Leave a note when?"_

"Goodbye, John," said Sherlock, hoping that this time around, it wasn't forever.

"No," said John. "Don't—"

Sherlock let his arm drop, trying to control himself. He tossed his phone backwards onto the roof and looked down at the airbag below him. He knew his lab tests showed no major blood clots, but what if it had been that way before? What if there was no escaping fate? What if, no matter what they did, he was to die this morning?

He took a deep breath. It didn't matter. If he didn't, his three friends would die. He had to.

 _For Lestrade. For Mrs. Hudson._

 _For John._

Distantly, Sherlock heard John scream his name as he raised his arms and pitched himself from the roof.


	20. Chapter 20

Epilogue

 _ **12 June 2011**_

" _This phone call—it's, er…it's my note," Sherlock told him. "It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"_

 _Sherlock could see John shaking his head, dropping his hand for a moment before bringing it back to his ear. "Leave a note when?"_

" _Goodbye, John," said Sherlock, hoping that this time around, it wasn't forever._

" _No," said John. "Don't—"_

 _Sherlock let his arm drop, trying to control himself. He tossed his phone backwards onto the roof and looked down at the airbag below him. He knew his lab tests showed no major blood clots, but what if it had been that way before? What if there was no escaping fate? What if, no matter what they did, he was to die this morning?_

 _He took a deep breath. It didn't matter. If he didn't, his three friends would die. He had to._

For Lestrade. For Mrs. Hudson.

For John.

 _Distantly, Sherlock heard John scream his name as he raised his arms and pitched himself from the roof._

* * *

 **12 June 2013**

John froze, blinking, as a peculiar sensation swept over him. Frowning, he glanced up at Greg, who was sharing the bewildered expression on his face.

"What is it?" asked Mary.

"It changed," said John as Greg nodded. "The funeral changed. Before, it was open casket, and it was Sherlock in there, but now—"

"The casket was closed," Greg finished.

"And Sherlock's parents," said John as the memory became clearer. "They weren't there this time. That would make sense if he had faked his death, right?"

"Yeah, he wouldn't have let them think he was dead when he wasn't," Greg agreed.

"And now, I don't remember Mycroft coming to tell me the truth, that Sherlock had actually died instead of faking his death," said John.

"So, it worked?" asked Mary.

"I think it did," said John, a smile breaking out over his face.

Mary enveloped him in a hug as a couple cheers and laughs filled the room. It wasn't long, though, before John sobered a bit.

"Wait," he said, a distant look on his face as he searched his memories, "if it worked…why didn't anything else change?"

"What do you mean?" asked Mary.

"I still remember him being dead for the last two years," John explained. "If he's alive, why hasn't he come back?"

* * *

 **Eight hours later…**

John, Greg and Mary were sitting grimly in 221B's sitting room, each lost in their own thoughts. They had waited all day for Sherlock to walk through the door or for John's or Greg's memories to change more, but…

"If he didn't die, why didn't he contact me?" John spoke up. "I mean, he'd be able to tell from my first letters how much his death wrecked me. Why wouldn't he tell me he was alive?"

"He must have his reasons," said Greg.

"Yeah, like he didn't make it," muttered John.

"Don't say that, John," Mary told him.

"Well, what if it's true?" said John. "What if the reason why it was a closed casket wasn't because it was a body double but because it actually was Sherlock, too broken from the impact with the ground that they decided on a closet casket? I mean, what if I only made things worse?" His throat tightened horribly as tears threatened to fall. "What if Moriarty caught on to Sherlock taking streptokinase and put another plan in motion? What if Sherlock actually had to jump and—" His throat closed up and cut off his sentence.

Mary stood and stepped up next to John's armchair, squatting and wrapping he arms around him. John put his own arms around her. It was a while before anyone spoke.

"If he did, he proved me right," said Greg.

John and Mary looked up at him.

"He saved our lives," Greg went on. "He was a good man."

John remembered back to that first case.

" _Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one."_

John nodded. "He was." He gave a small smile. "I visited his grave for the first time after the funeral, and I…" his smile grew, "I told him about how he was a hero…the best man I'd ever known…" His smile faltered. "I asked him to stop being dead." He looked up at the others, a sort of ironic laugh in his smile. "If he'd been alive, that would have been the perfect time to let me know."

The other two chuckled a little and fell silent.

"If I had, I'd be dead."

John's head snapped up to face the doorway, where Sherlock Holmes stood, a roomy jacket with jeans and a t-shirt on instead of his usual attire. John's jaw dropped.

"By believing I was dead, your letters the last two years saved my life," Sherlock went on.

John slowly stood and faced his friend, shock written all over his features.

"Besides, you know how I love a dramatic entrance," said Sherlock.

That did it. The shock broken, John started laughing and stepped forward to embrace his friend. Sherlock returned the embrace for a moment before it was broken. He looked up at Greg.

"You never wrote that Lestrade was in on this," Sherlock accused John. He then looked at Mary. "And…" his brows furrowed, "I haven't met this one, have I?"

"Ooh, you were right, John, he is charming," Mary teased.

Smiling, John gestured between the two of them. "Mary, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is Mary Morstan."

"Ah, the latest girlfriend," said Sherlock.

Mary giggled as John's jaw clenched.

"Not 'latest,' Sherlock," John muttered. "Hopefully, the last."

"Oh, you're finally giving up on dating," said Sherlock. "Well, it was a valiant effort, but not many women can cope with such an active, dangerous lifestyle."

John shook his head and turned towards Mary. "Why do I bother?" He strode back to his chair.

Mary's giggles renewed as she stepped towards Sherlock. "Can't cope, hmm? What can you deduce, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock frowned at her rather uninhibited confidence and then looked her over. "You are an only child, whose parents made up for lack of siblings by buying a pet, which is why you are a cat lover. You work as a part-time nurse—oh, at John's practice; that's how you two met. You're short-sighted and wear contacts, not comfortable with laser eye surgery due to a bad experience you had when you had your appendix removed. Oh, and you have a secret tattoo."

Mary nodded with an impressed smile. "Hmm. Looks like I did an excellent job with my identity, then."

Sherlock frowned, thrown for a moment. "Identity…Witness protection? No, not quite that. Witness protection comes with government handlers, and you're far too independent for that. Government agent?"

"MI-5," Mary supplied.

"Ah," breathed out Sherlock in realization. "Operative?"

"Part of an elite team, sent to extract and interrogate," Mary told him.

"Ah, an assassin," deduced Sherlock. He glanced over at John. "She told you about this?"

"Not at first," said John. "It took a while before I showed her she could trust me."

Sherlock glanced at Mary. "In other words, you were bragging on our cases so much that Mary got jealous and wanted to show she could handle cases as well."

"Basically," shrugged Mary.

"Solve any while I was away?"

"If I had, I would have told you in the letters," John told him.

Sherlock nodded and moved over to his armchair. "Well, it's nice to finally meet you."

John frowned. "We've met, Sherlock."

"No, we haven't," said Sherlock, settling into the seat. "I've met the John before the letters. You are a John that has communicated two years into the past, a John with a burden of keeping my death a secret from me, of determining what to tell and what not to tell. I do not envy you that burden. Nor am I ungrateful."

John nodded, accepting the gratitude. "So, what's with the attire?"

"Less conspicuous," Sherlock replied. "I am supposed to be dead, remember?"

"Right," said John. "How do you plan on returning from the dead? When?"

"Very soon," said Sherlock. "Once Mycroft is finished dealing with my exploits over the last two years."

"What have you been doing?" asked Greg.

"Hunting down Moriarty's network."

"By yourself?" asked John in surprise.

"Mycroft sent people when I needed them, but, yes," said Sherlock.

"And you're finished?" asked John.

"Mycroft's people are dealing with the last loose end I pointed them at, but I had places to be," said Sherlock. He gave John a smirk. "It's a very important anniversary, after all."

John shook his head. "Always the drama queen."

"I have to be," Sherlock replied. "Apparently, I'm a miracle worker."

John looked over at him, the smile fading a little.

" _Wait, there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't…be…dead."_

Sherlock looked back at him, conveying everything in one solemn look. _I was there._ "Sorry I'm late."

John's smile returned. "Better late than never."

There was silence for a few moments before Greg stood.

"Well, I better be off," he told them. "My shift starts early tomorrow, and I haven't slept all night." He moved towards the door.

"Night, Greg," said John.

"And Lestrade—" began Sherlock.

"My lips are sealed," Greg assured him. He turned back. "Do me a favor, though? Tell me when the news breaks? I'd love to see the look on Donovan's face."

Sherlock frowned. "Just Donovan? What happened to Anderson?"

"Oh, he was let go months back," said Greg. "Mental breakdown, is what they said. Completely obsessed with this mad theory that you'd faked your death." He gave a smirk and left.

Sherlock stared after him. "Well, what do you know? Anderson got one right." He looked back at John. "So, when are you proposing?"

John looked at Sherlock in rising indignation. "Sherlock—"

"Oh, it's fine," said Sherlock dismissively. "Mary knew."

"You—" John frowned as he looked at Mary. "You did?"

Mary gave him a sheepish smile. "I did. You've been furtive for weeks, there was a receipt sticking out of your pocket last week for Gillman's—which has a jewelry shop on the same street, and you keep patting your coat pockets—which, judging by the bulge over your chest, is where you've got the ring now."

John rolled his eyes. "Great, there's two of them."

Sherlock smiled at Mary. "Excellent set of skills, Mary. John, I approve."

"Well, thanks, for your blessing," muttered John sarcastically.

"My pleasure," said Sherlock.

"I do have one question, though," said Mary, looking over at Sherlock. "Molly."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, Molly was involved."

Mary waved that off. "No, no, of course she helped you fake your death. I want to know what you think of her."

Sherlock frowned and looked up at John.

"She thinks you have feelings for Molly," John told him for clarification. "Romantic feelings."

Sherlock looked back at Mary, staring at her for a long moment before sighing. "Possibly."

John's eyes widened as Mary's smile widened immeasurably. "What?"

"For years, I have felt that Molly counted more than everyone else, but I just assumed it was because she was one of the few people that put up with me," said Sherlock. "But then, there was Lestrade, and then you, John. Molly feels more important to me than either of you. Is that attraction, romance? I don't have a clue. But I believe I am willing to explore it."

"I knew it," laughed Mary. She looked at John. "I told you."

"I see you've told her all about me," Sherlock told John. "Well—" he slapped his hands onto the armrests and pushed himself to his feet, striding towards the door, "—let's go give Mrs. Hudson a heart attack, shall we?"

"Sherlock—" John exclaimed, jumping out of his own chair and hurrying after him as Mary dissolved into laughter again.

* * *

 **26** **th** **June**

 **The Empty Hearse**

 **Well.**

 **So yes.**

 **You'll have seen the news.**

 **Where do I even begin?**

 **As the trending hashtag says: #sherlocklives**

 **So yes. He's come back from the dead.**

 **Oh, and in other news, I've got engaged. But, it's not something I'm really going to talk about much here. I want to keep some things private. I will say, though, she's the best thing that's ever happened to me. Sorry, Sherlock :)**

 **So, yes. It's all good. Better than good. It's bloody brilliant. #sherlocklives means #johnwatsonlives.**

* * *

THE END


End file.
